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A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/chronicleoffrienOOIoww 


Self-portrait  of  W.  H.  L. 
Painted  in  the  "  vine-trellised  arbour"  at  Montigny,  1876 


A  CHRONICLE 
OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

1873-1900 

BY 

WILL   H.   LOW 

WITH     ILLUSTRATIONS    BY    THE 
AUTHOR  AND   FROM   HIS  COLLECTIONS 


Neque  est  ullum  certius  amicitia  vinculum 
^uam  consensus  et  societas  consiliorum  et  voluntatum 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

MDCCCCVIII 


Copyright,  xqo8,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  October,  1908 

First  Impression,  October,  1908 

Second  Impression,  December,  1908 


237 


To  B.  J.  L. 

All  of  whicli  she  saw  and  part  of  which  she  was. 

W.  H.  L. 


LIBRAR7 


PREFACE 

This  is  a  chronicle  of  small,  unimportant  happenings. 
The  subsequent  importance  of  one  of  the  young  men  who 
figures  therein  should  be,  I  presume,  its  best  excuse  for  being; 
but  a  truthful  portrayal  of  even  his  character,  as  it  rises  clear 
in  my  memory,  demands  that  no  more  than  his  then  importance 
should  be  assigned  him.  For  the  keynote  of  the  intercourse  of 
the  little  band  of  youths  of  differing  nationalities  whom  chance 
threw  together  in  France  in  the  early  seventies  was  a  common 
respect  for  individual  characteristics.  Hence  this,  though 
largely  occupied  with  two  young  Scots,  cousins,  the  narrator 
and  others  figure  therein;  and  it  does  not  pretend  to  give  to 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  the  dominant  position  which  he  won 
in  later  life.  To  me,  even  at  that  time,  he  was  marked  with 
signs  of  genius,  and  in  the  give  and  take  of  unconventional 
intercourse,  I  think  that  we  would  perhaps  have  given  him 
first  place  had  it  ever  occurred  to  make  such  distinctions; 
perhaps,  I  add,  for  equal  suffrage  at  least  would  have  been  ac- 
corded to  his  cousin  Robert  Alan  Mowbray  Stevenson,  who  in 
all  the  qualities  of  dominating  wit,  potential  in  our  assembly, 
where  project  and  purpose  outweighed  action  and  accomplish- 
ment, outshone  us  all.  In  the  prefaceof  "  Virginibus  Puerisque" 
Stevenson  abandons  an  earlier  project  of  writing  a  series  of 
papers  on  "Life  at  Twenty-five,"  believing  that  at  thirty  odd 
the  time  for  such  a  work  was  past.  Rushing  where  R.  L.  S. 
has  feared  to  tread,  I  might  quote  Cellini's  opening  paragraphs 
in  his  autobiography,  in  defence  of  a  project  to  enregister  the 
events  which  occupied  these  years  of  our  youth.  For  the  man 
past  fifty  can  look  back  with  a  certain  clearness  of  vision  which 
is  denied  him  in  the  years  when  youth  is  slipping  from  his  grasp, 
when  each  small  particle  of  the  careless  hours  of  the  primrose 


viii  PREFACE 

time  takes  undue  proportion  in  the  foreground  of  the  im- 
mediate past,  and  obscures  more  of  the  path  already  trod  than 
it  does  in  the  longer  perspective  of  subsequent  decades.  In 
any  case  my  recital  is  one  where  events,  if  not  more  prominent 
than  opinions  and  belief,  have  nevertheless  the  w^eight  of 
actualities  as  ballast;  it  is  not  the  canoe  of  "sv^^eeter  cedar, 
pithier  pine"  stored  with  the  fanciful  speculations  of  youth, 
which  R.  L.  S.  would  have  steered  with  felicitous  touch  through 
the  shoals  and  currents  of  the  halcyon  age,  but  rather  the  cargo 
boat,  freighted  with  the  memories  common  to  us  all,  slowly 
remounting  the  current  to  the  port  of  our  youth — the  current 
which  to  so  many  of  us  has  led  on  the  outward  passage  to  ports 
beyond  human  ken,  voyages  tempestuous  in  which  we  have 
foundered,  voyages  placid  but  with  baffling  calms  in  sight  of 
port;  and  above  all,  as  will  hereafter  appear,  small  mutinies 
and  great  divergence  of  opinion  as  to  the  course  to  be  steered 
on  the  part  of  the  inexperienced  navigators.  Perhaps  that 
which  to  the  writer  seemed  unwarranted  hardship,  the  forcible 
separation  from  the  friends  of  his  formative  period  of  char- 
acter, was  a  blessing  in  disguise,  for  it  is  certain  that  our 
snb«?pnuent  intercourse  ignored  the  lapse  of  years,  and  to  meet 
jf  lik  'Usins  in  after  life  was  to  resume  the  thread  of  existence 
,|^^j^,  had  last  dropped  it,  regardless  of  all  that  had  oc- 

the  interval.  Hence  until  the  last  we  breathed  the 
auo  ui  our  youth  and  the  hard  knocks  of  later  life  never  sapped 
the  foundation  of  our  castle  in  Spain.  One  of  the  most 
intimate  of  the  English  friends  of  R.  L.  S.  once  told  me  half 
jealously  that  I  had  had  the  best  of  him,  inasmuch  as  our 
infrequent  meetings  had  established  this  footing  of  perennial 
youth.  It  is  certain  that,  in  so  far  as  I  am  myself  concerned, 
I  established  for  him  in  early  life  a  place  apart,  looking  on 
him  as  upon  an  extraneous  conscience,  a  wise  youth  to  whom 
I  could  turn,  not  so  much  for  the  solution  of  knotty  questions 
of  conduct,  as  to  an  ally  in  whose  company  we  could  juflicially 
discuss  the  multiple  sides  of  any  problem. 


PREFACE  ix 

We  undoubtedly  had,  to  a  larger  degree  than  usual,  a  passion 
for  examining  all  sides  of  a  question.  Hence  many  divergen- 
ces of  opinion,  expressed  with  vehemence  oftentimes,  but  hap- 
pily I  look  back  on  many  years  of  friendship  w^ith  the  cousins 
without  one  shadow  of  angry  dispute.  Probably  with  a 
common  understanding  of  the  inscrutable  decrees  of  destiny 
we  never  took  our  conclusions  too  seriously.  The  sense  of 
humour  with  which  the  cousins  were  so  liberally  endowed  I 
claim  to  possess  in  at  least  a  minor  degree,  and  paradox  was 
undoubtedly  a  recognized  fourth  in  our  triune  parliament. 
With  this  understanding  of  the  ultimately  illustrious  R.  L.  S. 
I  have  at  least  been  saved  the  overserious  view,  which  moved 
another  friend  of  his  youth  to  tear  down  the  beautiful  structure 
of  a  friendship  based  upon  mutual  succour,  at  a  time  when 
both  of  them  needed  a  friend. 

Of  the  cousins,  "Bob,"  as  our  affection  named  him,  per- 
haps less  remains  save  in  the  memory  of  a  few  than  of  any 
other  man  equally  gifted.  One  masterpiece  of  criticism — the 
"Art  of  Velasquez" — and  the  fugitive  contributions  to  the 
columns  of  two  critical  journals  seem  little  enough  to  those 
who  knew  him.  And  of  the  man,  I  despair  at  the  outset  of 
conveying  an  adequate  impression,  for  the  very  va-       .,.  i.',' 

brilliancy  of  his  conversation  defies  registration,  a  i« 

.,.,,,  .  •  rta:  j.rf) 

R.  L.  S.  I  have  few  letters  m  which  he  has  written  ,^ 

thoughts. 

Of  the  third  musketeer,  since  Dumas'  trinity  was  repeated 

in  our  case  as  it  has  been  so  often  in  the  good  city  of  Paris, 

though  I  shall  spare  my  reader  insistence  upon  this  coincidence, 

perhaps   overmuch    may   be   found   here.     The   narrator,   as 

R.  L.  S.  has  again  pointed  out  in  the  preface  to  the  "Inland 

Voyage,"  ofttimes   arrogates  to  himself  all  the  philosophical 

reflections  and  leaves  to  his  companion's  account  all  the  bad 

language  and  questionable  action.     To  tell  the  tale  at  all  it 

appears  to  me  in  strongly  autobiographical  guise,  for,  as  I  have 

before  said,  we  were  all  equal  in  our  relations;    and,  conse- 


X  PREFACE 

quently,  he  who  happens  to  be  the  survivor  may  seem  to  take 
more  than  a  proportionate  part  in  the  light  of  after  events. 

Finally,  I  have  not  undertaken  the  task  without  much 
hesitation,  for  few  men  have  left  more  of  themselves  to  the 
world  than  R.  L.  S.  has  written  into  his  works,  and  since  his 
death  much  has  been  written  of  him.  From  the  sad  morning 
when  the  news  of  my  friend's  death  came  from  Samoa,  I  have 
been  constantly  urged  that  I  might  fill  up  a  gap  in  his  story  by 
the  recital  of  our  life  at  a  period  which  his  correspondence  left 
unfilled.  This  has  been  urged  upon  me  by  many  whose  opin- 
ions I  cherish,  by  some  who  were  very  near  him.  For  a 
number  of  years  it  was  all  matter  of  too  poignant  sorrow  at 
my  loss  for  me  to  undertake  it.  This  feeling  has  given  way 
to  a  sad  pleasure  in  having  been  so  fortunate  as  to  have  a 
large  part  of  my  life  filled  by  a  friendship  with  one  so  lovable 
beyond  his  gifts,  and  with  his  memory  is  so  closely  intertwined 
"one  other,  our  friend,"  that  he  occupies  an  equal  place; 
while  to  make  myself  intelligible  I  see  my  own  personality 
tying,  as  it  were,  the  strands  of  these  memories. 

Inextricable  among  these  memories  there  rise  others,  of 
good  friends  and  true,  who  have  shared  in  the  work  and  play 
c  Te — men  remembered  or  forgotten,  but  none  who,  in  our 
t.!^  :en  field  of  art,  have  laboured  in  vain — one,  above  all,  so 
lately  gone  that  it  brings  some  measure  of  relief  to  look  back 
over  the  sunny  perspective  of  the  past,  to  dispel  the  sadness 
that  his  loss  entails. 

If  I  am  able  to  conjure  up  some  vision  of  our  happy,  ques- 
tioning youth,  I  can  best  satisfy  the  sincere  interest  that  the 
readers  of  Stevenson  have  so  often  manifested.  I  can,  perhaps, 
portray  a  little  more  closely  two  of  my  friends  who  will  surely 
live  in  our  literature  and  our  art  and  others  fast  passing,  brave 
shadows,  with  the  passing  of  those  who  knew  and  loved  them. 

Lawrence  Park,  W.  H.    L. 

Bronxville,  N.  Y., 
August,  1908. 


II 
III 

IV 

V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

IX 

X 

XI 

XII 

XIII 

XIV 

XV 

XVI 

XVII 

XVIII 

XIX 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 

XXIII 


CONTENTS 

At  No.  8i  on  Mount  Parnassus    . 

L'Atelier  des  Eleves  de  Monsieur  Car- 
olus-duran 

R.  A.  M.  S 


Veuve  Poncelet's  and  Lavenue's  . 

Enter  R.  L.  S. 

Comrades  and  Camarades 

Jean  Francois  Millet 

Peasants  and  Painters    . 

Pre-Stevensonian  Days  in  Barbizon 

The  Advent  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  . 

Stennis  Aine,  Stennis  Frere,  and  Wal 
TER  Simpson 

Our    Work,     Our     Play,     and     Our 
Thoughts        


A  Paris  Winter  and  a  First  Effort 
Montigny  and  Grez — Summer  of  '76 
The  Beginning  of  the  End    . 
"Youth  Now  Flees  on  Feathered  Foot' 
FiNi  de  Rire!     .  .        .  •      . 

A  New  Friend  and  His  Work 
The  Return  of  the  Argonaut 
Experiences  and  Memories  of  Home 
Prophecy  Confirmed 
A  Nantucket  Interlude 
Comrades  in  New  York  . 


PAGE 
I 

12 

25 
41 

51 

62 

78 
96 

no 
123 

140 

149 

159 
172 
184 
194 
208 
220 
231 
242 

255 
265 

272 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


XXIV  Trans-Atlantic  Messages 

XXV  Paris  Revisited         .... 

XXVI  12  Rue  Vernier         .... 

XXVII  Pleasant  Days  in  the  Rue  Vernier 

XXVIII  Fin  d'Ete— 1886         .... 

XXIX  London — ^En  Passant. 

XXX  The  Second  Coming  of  R.  L.  S.     . 

XXXI  A  Halt  Before  Saranac  . 

XXXII  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens        .... 

XXXIII  The  Return  from  Saranac 

XXXIV  The  Fifth  Act 

XXXV  Exit  R.  L.  S 

XXXVI  Echoes  from  Lavenue's  and  a  Memory 
OF  Puvis  de  Chavannes 

XXXVII  A  Glimpse  of  Giverny  and  of  a  Deposed 

Favourite 

XXXVIII  A  Link  Broken — Others  Taken  Up 

XXXIX  The  Curtain  Falls      .        .     . 

XL  Retrospect  and  Forecast 


PAGE 
287 

318 

339 

353 

366 

376 

387 
396 
407 
419 

430 

446 

459 
476 

493 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Self-portrait  of  W.  H.  L.  painted  in  "the  vine-trellised 
arbour"  at  Montigny,  1876         .        .        .     Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Carolus-Duran  in  1874 12 

The"Massier" 18 

L'atelier   Gerome   in    1873 — in  the  courtyard  of  the 
Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts 42 

A  youthful  portrait  of  R.  L.  Stevenson        ...       54 

Preserving  his  aspect  in  the  days  here  described. 

Le  Pont  des  Arts,  Paris,  the  Institute  in  the  background      58 

"Bob,"  with  the  mumps 62 

From  a  sketch  by  R.  A.  M.  Stevenson. 

Frank  O'Meara .        .66 

From  an  early  work  by  John  S.  Sargent,  in  the  possession  of 
Mrs.  Isobel  Strong. 

The  Nymph  Echo,  from  the  statue  by  Adrien  Gaudez      68 
L'ami  Gaudez,  1875 7° 

From  a  sketch  in  oil  by  Will  H.  Low. 

Codes,  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens    ....       74 

From  a  pencil  sketch  by  Will  H.  Low. 

"The  young  Sarah  Bernhardt,"  to  whose  "voice  of 
gold"  we  listened  in  1873 7^ 

J.  F.  Millet 84 

From  a  drawing  by  Will  H.  Low. 

Spring 88 

From  the  painting  in  the  Louvre  by  J.  F.  Millet. 


xiv  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING    PAGE 

Maternal  Cares 92 

From  a  painting  by  Will  H.  Low,  in  the  possession  of  G.  H. 
Thacher,  Esq.,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

La  Mhre  Charlotte — my  landlady  in  Barbizon     .        .      96 
Home-made  Bread 100 

From  the  painting  by  Will  H.  Low,  in  the  possession  of  Mrs. 
J.  Victor  Onativia,  New  York. 

House  of  the  Belle  Clarisse,  Barbizon,  1875         •        •     102 
Door  of  Theodore  Rousseau's  House,  Barbizon,  1875       ^^ 

From  a  painting  by  Will  H.  Low. 

In  the  forest  depths — Fontainebleau    .        .        .        .122 

L'Allee  des  Vaches — Entrance  to  Barbizon,  from  the 
Forest 126 

From  a  painting  by  H.  R.  Bloomer. 

The  bridge  at  Grez 136 

Sketch  in  oils  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  in  the  Bas 
Breau,  Fontainebleau,  Autumn  of  1875    •        •        •     152 

Reverie — in  the  time  of  the  First  Empire.     Salon  of 
1876  and  N.  A,  D.  exhibition,  1877    ....     170 

From  the  painting  by  Will  H.  Low,  in  the  possession  of 
John  Boyd  Thacher,  Esq.,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

From  the  arbour  overhanging  the  river  at  Montigny-sur- 
Loing 174 

The  village  street  at  Grez  176 

Springtime,  Montigny-sur-Loing,  1876  .        .        .     180 

From  the  painting  by  Will  H.  Low,  in  the  collection  of  Sir 
George  Drummond,  Montreal. 

The  city  gate  and  the  inn  at  the  bridge  end,  Moret    .     188 

Under  the  walls  of  an  ancient  town. 

Daisies — Montigny-sur-Loing,  1876      ....     198 

From  the  painting  by  Will  H.  Low,  in  the  possession  of  the 
late  Sir  Walter  Simpson,  Bart. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  xv 


FACING   PAGE 

Portrait  of  Emma  Albani — role  of  Lucia;  Salon  of  1877     202 

From  the  painting  by  Will  H.  Low,  in  the  possession  of  the 
Albany  Club,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

A  group  in  the  garden  of  Chevillon's  Inn  at  Grez,  1877     208 

Enfield  at  the  tiller 212 

Reredos  by  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens    ....     220 

Modelled  in  Paris,  1877,  for  St.  Thomas's  Church  (recently 
destroyed  by  fire),  New  York  City.  Photographed  from 
the  original  models  as  placed  on  the  studio  wall  in  Paris. 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 230 

Sketch  painted  from  life,  1877. 

Portrait  sketch  of  my  Father,  xAiddison  Low,  in  his 
seventy-third  year — painted  April,  1883     .        .        .     252 

Flight  of  Night  and  the  Discoverer      ....     260 

From  the  decorations  by  William  Morris  Hunt  in  the  Cap- 
itol at  Albany,  N.  Y. 

Nantucket  from  the  beach 268 

Joseph  M,  Wells 276 

From  the  portrait  by  T.  W.  Dewing. 

In  the  Garden  at  12  Rue  Vernier,  Paris      .        .        .318 
William  Ernest  Henley 328 

From  the  bust  by  Auguste  Rodin. 

Fac-simile  of  the  dedication  to  Mrs.  Low  of  a  copy  of 
the  French  edition  of  "Treasure  Island"  by  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson 334 

Chimney-piece  in  the  author's  studio,  with  the  portrait- 
medallion  of  R.  L.  S 390 

Fac-simile  of  a  letter  and  caricatures  by  Saint- 
Gaudens  394 

The  Union  House 4°^ 

The  room  on  the  second  floor  with  the  open  window  is  the 
one  occupied  by  Stevenson. 


xvi  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

The  road  to  the  sea 422 

Ste.  Radigonde  at  the  Convent  of  Ste.  Croix       .        .     438 
Charles  Martel,  conqueror  of  the  Saracens  .        .        .     442 

This  and    the    preceding   from    a  decoration  by  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  for  the  City  Hall  at  Poitiers  (Salon  of  1874). 

Theodore  Robinson 476 

The  Flute 480 

Dessus  de  parte  by  W.  H.  Low,  in  the  music-room  of  the 
residence  of  the  late  Charles  T.  Yerkes,  New  York. 

Gaudez  and  la  petite  Adrienne — in  the  garden,  1892     496 


Caricature  of  W.  H.  L.  by  S.  W.  Van  Schaick. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


A  CHRONICLE    OF    FRIENDSHIPS 

I 

AT  NO.  8 1  ON  MOUNT  PARNASSUS 

WE  dwelt  on  Mount  Parnassus.  To  the  outer 
vision  there  was  no  particular  reason  why  the 
stretch  of  boulevard,  closed  at  one  end  by  the 
gilded  dome  of  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  and  arrested  at 
its  intersection  with  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel  by  the 
Observatory  before  it  continued  under  another  name 
into  the  terra  incognita  of  the  regions  around  the  Lyons 
station,  should  be  known  by  that  name.  Nor  were  we 
aware  of  any  peculiar  significance  in  the  name  of  the 
street  where  we  abode,  for  we  were  a  number  of  healthy- 
minded  lads,  dimly  conscious,  perhaps,  that  the  course 
of  art  and  literature  in  our  time  was  to  be  directed  by 
us  in  new  and  better  channels;  but  this  was  only  when 
we  became,  as  we  phrased  it,  "deadly  serious";  and 
for  the  most  part  poetic  aspiration  and  the  dreams  of 
youth  were  loudly  scorned  and  openly  flouted.  Chance, 
and  the  proximity  to  the  studio  of  the  master  under 
whom  we  studied,  had  fixed  us  in  the  Quartter  Mont 
Parnasse.  Of  the  history  of  the  rather  uninteresting 
boulevard  of  that  name  I  am  quite  ignorant.  It  has 
still  the  new  look  which,  by  contrast  with  the  older  part 
of  Paris,  characterizes  those  portions  of  the  city  through 
which  the  Baron  Haussmann  cut  his  wide  avenues. 
To  the  left,  as  one  ascends  the  boulevard,  the  quarter 

1 


2         A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

is  composed  of  rather  narrow  and  tortuous  streets,  with 
sidewalks  often  shrinking  to  less  than  a  foothold;  in 
many  places  long  stretches  of  wall  and  overhanging 
trees  denote  religious  houses  of  many  kinds,  convents, 
seminaries  and  the  like,  established  when  the  quarter 
was  comparatively  open  and  the  country  near.  To 
the  right  lies  a  medley  of  populous  streets,  factories, 
one  of  the  large  cemeteries  of  Paris,  small  shops  of 
various  descriptions,  almost  constituting  a  provincial 
town  apart  from  Paris — an  unlovely  agglomeration 
through  which,  by  Montrouge,  Vanves,  and  Chatillon, 
we  reached  the  country  beyond. 

In  the  time  of  the  heroes  of  Paul  de  Kock  and  of 
Balzac,  and  those  of  Murger  as  well,  the  nimble-footed 
and  the  giddy-minded  sought  the  Grande  Chaumiere, 
in  the  adjacent  street  of  that  name,  to  dance;  and  later 
and  until  to-day  the  Closerie  des  Lilas,  better  known  as 
the  Bullier,  is  the  resort  of  the  frolicsome  student — and 
others — the  popular  ball  of  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine- 
To-day  the  Boulevard  Mont  Parnasse  retains  an  un- 
finished look,  but  in  1873,  when  I  first  saw  it,  the  trees, 
recently  planted  to  replace  those  cut  down  for  firewood 
in  the  terrible  winter  of  the  Siege,  gave  scant  shade  in 
the  midsummer  glare,  and  were  tossed  and  bent  like 
lithe  whips  by  the  winter  wind.  The  unpaved  walks 
were  dusty  in  summer  and  thick  with  mud  in  winter 
for  the  thinly  shod  student.  A  church  in  course  of 
slow  erection  was  the  only  considerable  building  on 
the  street,  except  the  station  of  the  Western  Railway 
and  its  neighbouring  hotel  and  restaurant — Lavenue's, 
which  honoured  name  will  often  appear  hereafter. 
Around  and  below  the  station  there  were  numbers  of 


MOUNT  PARNASSUS 


small  restaurants  frequented  by  the  cockers  of  the  sta- 
tion hacks  and,  in  time  of  stress,  by  impecunious  stu- 
dents. And  then,  as  now,  along  the  boulevard  and  in 
adjacent  streets,  were  many  studios.  Some  of  these 
have  since  then  given  place  to  many-storied  apartment 
houses,  having  been  razed  to  the  ground  in  their  char- 
acter of  one-story  buildings,  to  reappear,  transfigured 
to  a  higher  existence,  in  the  upper  stories  of  these 
apartment  houses.  In  one  instance,  however,  at  No. 
8 1  of  the  boulevard,  there  was  a  building  containing 
many  studios,  which  cannot  be  spoken  of  in  the  past 
tense,  as  the  interiors  of  the  studios  remain  very  much 
as  they  were  thirty  years  ago,  though  the  exterior  has 
been  greatly  changed.  The  entrance  at  that  time  was 
down  a  still-existing  blind  alley  or  impasse,  though 
since  an  entrance  has  been  made  from  the  boulevard. 
The  buildings  on  the  left  were  occupied  by  various 
small  industries,  and  on  the  right  a  large  wooden  door 
opened  into  a  court  around  which,  in  two  stories,  were 
grouped  studios;  those  for  sculptors  occupying  the 
ground  floor  with  painters'  studios  above.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  court  was  a  more  pretentious  con- 
struction where  Madame  la  Proprietaire  lived  upon  two 
floors,  while  the  third  was  covered  by  a  large  studio, 
entered  from  the  alley,  occupied  in  my  time  as  the 
studio  of  the  pupils  of  Carolus-Duran,  among  whom  I 
was  numbered.  The  courtyard,  destitute  of  grass,  was 
littered  by  large  blocks  of  marble  and  a  few  plaster 
statues,  to  which  their  authors,  the  sculptors  residing 
there,  refused  the  hospitality  of  their  studios  on  their 
return  from  the  exhibition  at  the  annual  Salon,  for 
which  they  were  created.     Prominent  among  these  was 


4         A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

a  huge  lion,  standing  guard  about  midway  of  the 
building  where  the  stairway  led  to  the  floor  above, 
where,  branching  to  right  and  left,  the  hall  ran  by  the 
doors  of  the  various  studios.  These  varied  little  in 
size  and  consisted  of  a  single  room,  the  wall  tinted  the 
colour  preferred  by  the  last  occupant,  sometimes  dec- 
orated by  charcoal  or  chalk  sketches  and  the  scrawled 
addresses  of  models. 

The  rooms  were  lofty,  a  huge  window  occupying  the 
whole  of  one  side  about  ten  feet  above  the  floor,  and 
opposite,  at  the  same  height,  a  platform  projected  seven 
or  eight  feet  into  the  studio,  which,  reached  by  a  ladder, 
served  as  a  bedchamber  for  the  bachelor  occupant.  I 
have  even  seen  eff'orts  at  a  menage  established  on  these 
lofty  perches,  but  these  unions  were  frowned  upon  by 
our  landlady;  for  Madame  la  Propri'etaire  ruled  her 
sometimes  unruly  tenants  with  a  rod  of  iron;  and  as 
she  was  a  deep-voiced,  portly  person,  possessing  a  much 
more  vigorous  moustache  than  most  of  her  youthful 
loc  at  aires,  she  was  generally  obeyed. 

The  task  of  government  was  shared  under  her  orders 
by  the  concierge,  man  and  wife.  Monsieur  and  Mad- 
ame Pavent,  as  these  worthies  were  named,  led  an 
uneasy  Hfe.  The  husband,  a  small,  wiry  person  of  a 
bilious  temperament,  may  be  said  to  have  lived  in  a 
state  of  continual  anger,  as  one  constantly  command- 
ing and  never  obeyed.  On  the  other  hand  there  were 
few  orders  transmitted  by  his  wife  that  did  not  meet 
with  respectful  consideration  and  general  obedience. 
Poor  little  Monsieur  Pavent  was  probably  even  then 
afflicted  with  the  premonitory  symptoms  of  the  mania 
of  persecution  which  finally  landed  him  in  an  insane 


MOUNT  PARNASSUS 


asylum;  but  it  must  be  owned  that  a  motley  assem- 
blage of  thirty  or  forty  artists  and  art  students  of  vary- 
ing nationalities,  dwelling  under  his  jurisdiction, 
created  a  potentiality  of  disturbance  trying  to  a  stronger 
brain  than  his.  Ignoring  the  cause  of  his  perpetual 
choler,  we  looked  on  him  as  a  petty  tyrant,  and  upon 
all  necessary  occasions,  to  say  nothing  of  those  which 
were  less  so,  we  were  ready  to  meet  him  in  battle  royal. 
This  was  particularly  the  case  at  night,  when  the  clang 
of  the  bell  on  the  wooden  gate  at  the  entrance  of  the 
court  claimed  incessantly  admission  for  some  one  of 
the  tenants.  Fortunately,  there  was  no  communica- 
tion between  the  lodge  and  the  outer  passage  by  which 
parley  could  be  held  with  the  belated  tenant,  or  un- 
doubtedly many  of  us  would  have  slept  in  the  streets. 

It  was  necessary,  therefore,  each  time  the  bell  rang 
that  the  door  should  be  opened.  Once  within  the 
court  the  stairway  leading  to  the  studios  was  never 
closed,  but  few  were  the  occasions  when,  after  giving 
one's  name,  according  to  custom,  the  voice  of  Mon- 
sieur Pavent  was  not  raised  in  vituperation  of  the  dis- 
reputable scoundrel  who  would  not  permit  decent 
people  to  rest  peaceably  at  night.  Those  of  us  to 
whom  French  was  a  foreign  tongue  owe,  I  am  certain, 
a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  irate  concierge  for  an  initia- 
tion in  the  idiomatic  possibilities  of  the  Billingsgate  of 
that  ordinarily  polite  language;  and  several  of  us  be- 
came past  masters  in  the  easy  flow  of  abusive  repartee. 

The  female  of  this  snapping  watch-dog  was,  how- 
ever, as  I  have  said,  held  in  high  esteem,  and  well  she 
might  be,  for  she  was  good  to  look  upon,  a  matronly 
woman,  large  without  grossness,  pleasant  voiced,  keen, 


6         A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


and  firm  in  the  defence  of  her  rights  and  conciHatory 
to  the  rights  of  others,  exacting  in  her  placid  firmness 
good  treatment  from  her  overbearing  lord;  and  alto- 
gether a  fine  type  of  the  self-respecting  Frenchwoman 
of  the  peasant  class,  seldom  found  as  the  guardian  of 
the  door  in  a  Parisian  house. 

The  group  of  artists  within  the  court,  however,  was 
neither  exclusively  foreign  nor  embryonic.  We  had 
one  celebrity.  Monsieur  Perraud,  Member  of  the  In- 
stitute, sculptor  of  the  closely  studied  "Infancy  of 
Bacchus,"  then  in  the  Luxembourg,  and  at  present, 
now  that  its  author  has  joined  the  real  Immortals, 
one  of  the  fine  things  in  the  French  Sculpture  gal- 
lery of  the  Louvre.  This  good  old  man  had  so  keen 
a  remembrance  of  his  own  student  days  that  he  was 
filled  with  tolerant  charity  for  the  noisy  youngsters  who 
were  his  neighbours,  so  tolerant,  on  one  occasion,  that 
he  sallied  forth  from  his  studio  on  the  ground  floor  and 
bearded  the  lioness  landlady,  who  had  been  called  in 
to  settle  a  dispute  between  Monsieur  Pavent  and  a 
youth  guilty  of  the  crime  of  playing  the  banjo  after 
midnight  in  the  moonlit  court.  I  can  see  him  yet  as  I 
looked  from  my  upper  window,  in  his  velvet  skull-cap 
and  gray  workman's  vest,  on  which  shone  the  red 
rosette  of  the  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  as  he 
temperately  argued  with  the  lady  that  boys  would  be 
boys,  and  that  for  foreigners  we  were  not  as  bad  as  we 
might  be — though  he  owned  that  he  thought  our 
national  instrument  "epouvantable.^'  Again  I  wit- 
nessed meetings  between  him  and  his  old  friend  Cab- 
anel,  who,  as  the  master  of  one  of  the  ateliers  of  the 
National  Ecole  des   Beaux-Arts  was  endowed  in  our 


MOUNT  PARNASSUS 


student  eyes  with  an  even  greater  measure  of  dignity 
than  the  ordinary  member  of  the  Institute,  and  hstened 
to  the  "thee"  and  "thou"  of  their  intimate  friendship; 
the  tutoiement  which,  born  of  the  student  days,  lasts 
through  life  between  former  comrades.  A  third  re- 
membrance arises  as  I  recall  the  sad  face  of  Cabanel, 
standing  in  company  with  his  fellow  Academicians 
in  the  palm-embroidered  green  coats  of  their  ceremo- 
nial dress,  their  cocked  hats  doffed,  by  the  newly 
made  grave  of  Perraud  in  the  cimetiere  Montpar- 
nasse;  at  the  parting  of  the  way  they  had  long  trod 
together. 

Of  other  French  neighbours  in  the  court  I  remember 
one,  now  a  well-known  living  sculptor,  who  at  that 
time  had  just  received  his  first  medal  in  the  Salon.  It 
is  the  custom  for  the  recipients  of  these  honours  to  make 
a  formal  call  upon  each  member  of  the  jury,  and  on 
such  visits  a  high  hat  must  of  necessity  be  worn.  I  had 
early  learned  that,  however  eccentric  one's  costume  as 
a  student  might  be,  a  high  hat,  however  shabby,  cov- 
ered a  multitude  of  sartorial  sins.  Contumely  visited 
upon  a  sealskin  cap  which  the  winter  before  my  arrival 
in  Paris  had  been  a  not  unfashionable  head-covering 
in  New  York,  had  taught  me  a  lesson  which  resulted  in 
the  adoption  of  the  high-crowned,  straight-brimmed 
headgear,  which  from  the  time  of  John  Leech,  if  not 
before,  has  been  popular  in  Paris.  Worn  at  all  times, 
in  all  weathers,  my  hat  would  not  in  any  other  quarter 
have  excited  envy.  But  my  friend,  the  sculptor,  who 
had  confided  to  me  that  to  receive  a  medal  would  mean 
for  him  an  extension  of  credit  at  the  restaurant  and  a 
new  hat  like  mine,  had  been  apparently  half  rewarde.]; 


8         A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

for,  passing  through  the  court  one  day,  I  was  called 
into  his  studio,  and  in  view  of  the  absolute  necessity  of 
the  official  visits  he  explained  that  he  must  borrow  my 
hat.  He  proffered  his  own  in  temporary  exchange,  a 
most  lamentable  covering;  originally  black,  it  had 
passed  through  different  gradations  of  tone  until  it  was 
a  dingy  yellow  brown.  It  was  of  the  soft  variety,  with 
a  flapping  brim,  and  so  large  that  its  passage  from  the 
top  of  my  head  to  my  shoulders  was  only  intercepted  by 
my  ears.  My  own  hat  perched  jauntily  on  the  apex 
of  my  friend's  curling  locks  and,  thus  arrayed,  he 
sallied  forth  for  the  day  on  his  ceremonial  visits.  In- 
stead of  one  day,  the  visits,  and  doubtless  various  ap- 
propriate celebrations  of  the  honour  received,  lasted 
four  days.  Much  of  this  time  I  sought  the  seclusion 
of  my  studio,  where  I  could  hide  the  hated  object  from 
my  sight,  but  hunger  drove  me  from  my  den  at  least 
twice  a  day,  when  my  appearance  was  such  that  the 
whole  populace  of  the  quarter  gave  itself  up  to  un- 
limited joy.  At  the  end  of  the  fourth  day  my  friend 
reappeared,  but  his  assurance  that  my  kindness  had 
insured  his  whole  future  was  but  slight  balm  for  the 
wounds  of  my  dignity. 

The  foreign  element  within  our  court  was  almost 
exclusively  English  or  American.  Upon  the  right  of 
the  entrance  was  a  small  detached  building;  the  ground 
floor  the  lair  of  the  concierge,  while  the  upper  con- 
tained two  studios,  to  one  of  which  was  attached  a 
real  bedroom  and  a  small  kitchen.  This  luxury  of  the 
one  studio  was  compensated  by  the  penury  of  the 
other,  which  lacked  even  the  soiipentc,  or  projecting 
platform,  already  described.     There  was,  however,  a 


MOUNT   PARNASSUS 


shallow  cupboard  occupying  space  over  the  stairway  by 
which  the  studio  was  reached,  and  this  was  utilized  by 
one  of  my  friends  of  small  stature,  who  at  night  opened 
his  cupboard  doors  and  stretched  himself  upon  a  mat- 
tress placed  on  one  of  the  shelves.  As  the  cupboard 
had  two  doors  closing  on  an  upright  bar  in  the  middle, 
a  certain  snake-like  suppleness  was  demanded  to  enter 
into  the  improvised  bedroom;  but,  as  my  comrade  re- 
marked, the  upright  was  an  effectual  preventive  against 
rolling  out  of  bed.  This  was  at  a  later  period  than  that 
of  which  I  now  write,  however;  at  this  time  the  larger 
of  these  studios  was  occupied  by  my  friend  Robert  Alan 
Mowbray  Stevenson,  and  the  smaller  by  Henry  Enfield. 
It  is  with  a  feeling  akin  to  inditing  a  notice  for  the 
"Personal"  column  of  a  newspaper — "if  this  should 
meet  the  eye  of,"  etc. — that  I  write  this  name  because 
of  the  many  years  that  its  bearer,  one  of  the  intimates 
of  our  little  group,  has  been  lost  to  sight.  Readers  of 
the  "Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde"  will 
recall  the  name,  described  as  that  of  the  "well-known 
man  about  town"  who  was  the  friend  of  Mr.  Utterson. 
Stevenson's  phrase  describes  the  superficial  appearance 
of  our  old  friend,  whose  great  stature,  broad  shoulders, 
ruddy  complexion  and  broad  wave  of  blonde  beard, 
combined  with  the  use  of  the  single  eyeglass,  made  him 
the  typical  Briton  of  the  type  then  in  fashion.  He  was 
much  more  than  this,  however.  Loving  the  sea,  he  had 
voyaged  far  and  near,  and  with  a  charming  sense  o( 
colour  and  great  knowledge  of  the  structure  and  rigging 
of  vessels  and  of  the  forms  of  wave-torn  water,  seemed 
destined  to  be  a  great  marine  painter.  He  was  our 
comrade  in  the  atelier  Duran,  with  frequent  absences, 


10        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

from  which  he  returned  with  a  patina  of  bronze  on  his 
ruddy  cheeks  and  new  tales  of  the  sea. 

What  caprice  of  the  Fates,  which  determine  and 
sometimes  divert  our  destinies,  has  led  him  to  desert 
his  early  vocation  and  devote  his  talents  to  the  fabrica- 
tion of  mediaeval  saints  in  stained  glass  at  Diisseldorf, 
is  unknow^n  to  me;  as  I  know  only  of  this  later  phase 
of  his  career  through  hearsay;  but,  I  venture  to  believe 
from  his  early  promise,  that  his  work  must  be  better 
than  the  dreary  generality  of  German  glass. 

There  were  others  within  the  quadrangle  who,  united 
in  our  common  pursuit,  aided  by  the  freedom  of  inter- 
course prevalent  among  young  men  detached  from 
association  with  home  and  family,  were  bound  by  ties  of 
intimate  association.  Lapse  of  years  and  divergency 
of  local  habitation  has  dispersed  these  men,  in  the  cases 
where  the  Great  Destroyer  has  stayed  his  hand.  In 
the  five  years  of  my  tenancy  of  one  or  the  other  of  these 
studios  I  saw  each  year  new  arrivals;  succeeding  genera- 
tions it  seemed  at  the  time,  so  great  was  the  separation 
between  the  nouveau  and  the  ancien;  and  many  of 
these  men  are  now  in  the  ranks  of  our  current  art 
production  here,  in  England,  and  in  France.  Among 
the  new  arrivals  one  year  was  Theodore  Robinson, 
who,  timidly,  with  due  respect  for  my  two  years'  ex- 
perience in  Paris  student  life,  sought  my  acquaintance; 
and  an  intimacy  of  closest  friendship  was  estabhshed, 
which  only  ceased  with  his  death  in  1896.  One  other, 
a  soft-voiced,  gentle  youth  from  a  Southern  State,  was 
with  us  a  couple  of  years,  sharing  Robinson's  studio, 
until  suddenly  recalled  by  some  reverse  of  family  for- 
tune.   We  little  thought,  in  our  daily  intercourse,  that 


MOUNT    PARNASSUS  11 

under  the  placid  surface  of  his  modest  self-efFacement 
the  fires  of  volcanic  passion  smouldered.  But  in  the 
course  of  time,  in  his  native  town,  to  which  he  returned, 
his  work  brought  him  recognition,  and  he  sought,  in  the 
awakened  interest  which  his  presence  inspired,  to  estab- 
lish an  art  school.  Pupils  came  to  him,  and  with  their 
progress  the  necessity  of  working  from  the  living  model 
became  manifest.  This  feature  of  his  teaching,  to  him 
a  simple  question  of  his  craft,  became,  in  the  community 
where  he  Hved,  a  question  of  morals.  Argument  waxed 
high,  the  local  press  took  up  the  question,  families  were 
divided  upon  it,  and  through  it  all  the  painter,  unable 
to  grasp  the  significance  of  the  dissension,  kept  steadily 
to  his  purpose,  followed  by  his  few  adherents.  At  last 
the  quarrel  reached  a  point  where  innate  savagery  broke 
through  the  crust  of  reasonable  argument,  and  the 
young  painter  went  to  the  door  of  his  chief  opponent 
prepared  to  settle  this  question  of  art  by  the  antique 
appeal  to  arms.  His  opponent  was  the  quicker  and,  in 
the  vernacular  of  the  section,  drew  his  gun  first;  and 
this  question  and  all  others  were  settled  forever  for  our 
whilom  comrade. 

Many  and  various  as  were  the  characters  of  the 
youths  sojourning  at  eighty-one,  as  we  phonetically 
designated  our  place  of  abode,  most  of  us  were  joined 
in  common  loyalty  to  the  atelier  Duran  which,  as  I 
have  already  mentioned,  occupied  the  third  floor  of  part 
of  the  buildings  congregated  around  the  court,  and  here 
for  half  the  day  our  lives  were  spent  in  study. 


II 


L'ATELIER    DES    ELEVES    DE   MONSIEUR 
CAROLUS-DURAN 

THE  legend  above  was  inscribed  on  the  door  in  the 
passageway  outside  the  court,  which  opened  on 
the  winding  stair  leading  to  the  upper  floor, 
where  a  small  anteroom  led  into  the  spacious  and  well- 
lit  studio  where  we  studied.  The  miscreant  was  never 
discovered  who,  with  an  assiduity  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,  added  with  chalk  from  time  to  time  a  final  "D" 
to  the  name  of  our  master,  and  sought  to  perpetuate 
the  legend  that  his  name  was  the  over-common  one  of 
Durand,  which  in  French  vies  in  popularity  with  the 
name  of  Smith  with  us.  One  of  the  duties  of  the 
massier — the  mace-bearer,  z.  ^.,  the  elected  monitor  of 
the  school — was  to  carefully  efface  this  added  letter 
each  week  before  the  visit  of  the  master.  Before  this 
door,  which  officially  opened  for  work  a  few  minutes 
before  eight  each  morning,  were  gathered  at  a  much 
earlier  hour  every  Monday  the  majority  of  the  youths 
who  by  name  or  description  will  figure  in  this  narrative. 
The  reason  for  our  early  appearance  was  the  custom  of 
allowing  each  student,  in  the  order  of  his  arrival,  to 
choose  the  position  which  he  preferred  before  the  model 
for  his  study  of  the  week.  More  than  once  in  those 
days,  when  to  waste  the  nights  in  slumber  seemed  in- 
judicious, has  the  writer  or  some  of  his  comrades  re- 
turned home  to  doze  in  an  armchair  by  the  smouldering 

12 


Carolus-Duran  in  1874. 


L'ATELIER  CAROLUS-DURAN  13 

studio  fire,  until  the  short  interval  should  elapse  when 
the  adjacent  school  door  would  open  to  secure  a  good 
position  for  work.  In  these  days,  when  our  master  has 
achieved  nearly  all  the  honour  which  France  bestows 
on  a  successful  painter,  when,  as  President  of  the 
National  Society  of  Fine  Arts,  Member  of  the  Institute, 
and  Director  of  the  Academy  of  France  at  Rome,  his 
authority  is  no  longer  questioned,  it  is  a  far  call  to  the 
early  seventies  when  the  Institute,  still  implacable,  and 
the  majority  of  the  eminent  painters  then  in  vogue 
looked  upon  him  as  a  dangerous  innovator,  whose  per- 
sonal product  might  with  reason  be  considered  interest- 
ing, but  whose  teachings  were  to  be  avoided.  From 
the  enthusiasm  of  a  youth  from  Boston,  Robert  C. 
Hinckley,  now  a  successful  portrait  painter  in  Wash- 
ington, the  atelier  Duran  had  its  birth.  Mr.  Hinckley, 
arriving  in  Paris  with  the  intention  of  studying  art, 
had  been  greatly  impressed  by  Duran's  work  and  sought 
his  instruction  as  a  private  pupil.  M.  Duran  declined 
to  admit  a  pupil  into  his  private  studio,  but  offered,  if 
Hinckley  would  find  a  room  near  by  and  work  from 
life,  to  visit  him  and  correct  his  work  occasionally. 
This  he  did,  and  before  long  a  second  applicant  for  the 
privilege  of  study  was  referred  to  Hinckley  by  the 
master,  soon  followed  by  others.  When  I  joined  the 
atelier  there  were  eight  or  ten  pupils,  perhaps  half  being 
French,  and  in  the  years  following  the  number  rose  to 
forty,  the  majority  then  being  English  or  American. 
The  official  language  of  the  school  remained  French, 
however,  a  placard  announcing  a  fine  of  ten  centimes 
for  each  word  of  a  foreign  tongue  being  conspicuous 
on    the   walls;     a    fine,   curiously   enough,    more   often 


14        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

imposed  on  our  French  comrades,  proud  of  the  few 
words  of  English  which  they  possessed  than  upon  those 
to  whom  it  was  the  native  tongue.  The  vogue  of  an 
ateHer  in  Paris  then  or  now  is  not  altogether  due  to  the 
popularity  of  the  master's  work.  Perhaps  no  deep- 
settled  conviction  as  to  the  pre-eminence  of  a  master 
presides  at  their  foundation,  but  so  loyal  is  youth,  so 
tenacious  of  newly  acquired  beliefs,  and  so  enthusiastic 
in  conforming  to  them,  that  soon  after  their  entrance 
into  the  ranks  of  a  given  atelier  the  students  evince  a 
remarkable  esprit  du  corps  and  can  see  but  little  salva- 
tion outside  of  their  chosen  path.  Such,  at  least,  was 
the  atelier  Duratiy  and  we  had  need  of  our  convictions, 
for  we  were  classed  as  outlaws  by  the  conservative  pupils 
of  the  government  schools,  and  even  the  independent 
atelier  of  M.  Bonnat  looked  askance  on  the  newcomer. 
It  differed  indeed  in  one  particular  from  all  the  other 
schools  of  Paris.  Our  master  adopted  a  principle, 
admirable  in  its  logic,  yet  seductive  to  the  young 
painter  anxious  to  scale  the  painful  ascent  of  the  ladder 
of  art  at  a  bound. 

The  ordinary  methods  of  instruction  in  art  divide 
drawing  from  painting,  and  further  subdivide  drawing 
into  drawing  from  the  plaster  cast  and  from  life.  The 
evident  reason  for  thus  attacking  the  problems  of 
artistic  production  seriatim  is  not  to  confuse  the  stu- 
dent with  form  and  colour  at  the  same  time.  The 
disadvantage  of  such  a  method  Hes  in  the  danger  in 
after  work  of  continuing  this  subdivision  and  producing 
tinted  drawings  instead  of  the  fully  coloured,  freely 
drawn  products  of  the  brush,  which  is  the  final  instru- 
ment of  the  painter.     It  is  equally  evident  that  by  giv- 


L'ATELIER  CAROLUS-DURAN  15 

ing  the  neophyte  the  task  of  reproducing  in  colour  and 
form  the  ever-changing  living  model  his  difficulties  are 
multiplied  manifold.  But  this  is  more  or  less  unknown 
to  the  unpracticed  beginner,  and  the  charm  of  arriving 
at  once  at  the  point  held  in  reserve  during  long  years 
of  study  in  other  schools  overbalances  any  feeling  of 
timidity  which  he  may  have.  The  struggles  of  one 
who  cannot  swim  and  w^ho  is  thrown  into  deep  water 
are  nothing,  however,  compared  with  the  floundering 
in  colour  and  shapeless  form  which  characterize  the 
first  studies  according  to  this  method.  Logical  recti- 
tude reinforced  by  the  example  of  the  great  Velasquez 
are  but  feeble  props  for  the  despairing  student  strug- 
gling in  the  mesh  of  overpowering  difficulty.  Hence 
there  were  frequent  departures  from  our  ranks,  and 
many  a  defeated  painter  found  it  expedient  to  become 
an  humble  draughtsman  in  the  halls  of  antique  sculpture 
of  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts.  The  grave  M.  Bouguer- 
eau  w^as  quoted  as  asking  one  of  our  comrades,  "  Does 
M.  Duran  ever  make  you  draw  .f"'  and  Ingres's  axiom 
that  drawing  is  the  probity  of  art  was  repeated  to  us 
on  all  occasions  by  students  of  rival  ateliers  solicitous 
of  our  welfare. 

Given,  however,  a  sufficiently  eclectic  appreciation  of 
the  qualities  of  form  and  colour  which  make  a  work  of 
art,  and  a  nature  not  to  be  baffled  by  a  mulitiplication 
of  difficulites  at  the  outset,  this  method  of  study  has  its 
advantages.  It  keeps  ever  present  in  the  student's  mind 
the  final  end  to  be  attained,  and  the  incessant  use  of 
the  brush,  with  its  implied  rendition  of  form  and  colour 
by  masses  and  planes  which  exist  before  his  eyes,  rather 
than  by  the  point  and  masses  of  black  and  white  tones 


16        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

Avhich  are  the  necessary  conventions  of  the  usual 
method,  gives  him  a  mastery  of  his  tools  which  is 
superior  and,  as  I  have  already  repeated,  is  absolutely 
logical.  Joined  to  a  sincere  and  stimulating  enthusiasm 
as  a  teacher,  our  master  shov^^ed  great  perception  and 
consideration  for  the  individual  temperament  of  his 
pupils;  and  I  have  known  him  to  recommend  diamet- 
rically opposite  courses  to  different  men,  as  he  judged 
might  be  useful  to  one  or  the  other. 

As  temperament  varies  in  different  painters,  greater 
or  less  stress  is  laid  by  them  upon  qualities  of  form  or 
colour,  and  there  were  men  in  Duran's  who  drew  well 
and  have  since  continued  to  do  so,  and,  despite  the 
heresies  of  our  youthful  career  in  the  estimation  of 
academical  Paris,  few  of  the  ateliers  of  the  time  have 
turned  out  men  of  more  renown  to-day  in  the  various 
branches  of  art. 

It  was  our  privilege  a  few  years  ago,  on  the  occasion 
of  a  visit  to  this  country  by  M.  Duran,  to  assemble  in 
New  York,  without  going  farther  afield  than  Boston, 
a  round  dozen  of  his  former  pupils  at  dinner  at  one  of 
the  clubs.  Most  of  us  were  sufficiently  mature,  and 
more  or  less  known,  but  we  were  all  heartily  glad  to 
join  in  rendering  honour  to  one  to  whom  we  owed  so 
much. 

The  atelier  w^as  organized  on  a  democratic  basis,  all 
students  paying  a  certain  amount  each  month,  which 
went  for  the  expenses  of  rent,  heating,  and  the  hire  of 
models;  our  master  giving  gratuitously,  in  the  service 
of  art  and  in  gratitude  for  similar  gratuitous  instruction 
received  in  his  youth,  his  services  two  mornings  of 
every  week.     This  was  no  light  sacrifice  of  the  time  of 


L'ATELIER  CAROLUS-DURAN  17 

a  busy  portrait-painter  and,  but  little  later,  the  service 
given  was  increased  by  visits  to  our  own  studios;  when 
we  were  preparing  pictures  for  the  Salon,  when  he  was 
ever  willing  to  counsel  and  help  us.  The  internal 
government  of  the  studio  was  vested  in  our  massiery 
one  of  our  now  well-known  painters  in  New  York 
occupying  that  monitory  position,  and  ruling  us  with 
an  energy  on  a  par  with  our  openly  expressed  disregard 
for  all  rule.  The  models  were  chosen  by  vote,  and  I 
can  remember  a  long  succession  of  these  faithful  ser- 
vitors of  art  coming  week  after  week  for  our  suffrages, 
and  taking  their  positions  on  the  platform  for  our 
judgment,  in  the  intervals  of  repose  of  the  model  from 
whom  we  were  working.  They  were  of  all  types,  ages, 
and  of  colour,  I  might  say,  for  the  Negro  and  the  Arab 
were  of  the  number.  We  had  the  model  of  long  ex- 
perience who  had  posed  for  this  or  that  picture  or  statue 
in  the  Louvre,  where  works  of  art  are  never  placed 
until  ten  years  after  the  death  of  their  author;  and 
who  openly  criticised  our  inexperience  in  posing  a 
model,  or  deplored  our  modern  distaste  for  the  con- 
ventional pose;  "which  was  given  me.  Messieurs,  by 
no  less  a  person  than  Monsieur  Ingres  in  1856!"  We 
had  the  pere  Gelon,  the  pere  Lambert  (who,  dying,  left 
all  his  little  fortune  for  the  benefit  of  young  painters 
entered  in  the  competition  for  the  Prix  du  Rome,  in 
order  that  they  might  employ  models  as  much  as 
necessary),  the  brawny  Schlumberger,  and  the  Her- 
culean Thullier,  and  others,  whose  names  were  familiar 
to  all  students  at  that  time  in  Paris.  Many  were  the 
tales  these  veterans  told  of  the  great  men  they  had 
served,   and   eager   listeners   were   we,   who   strove   to 


18        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

follow  in  their  footsteps.  Among  the  women  models 
there  were  fewer  veterans,  or  probably  our  favouring 
votes  preferred  feminine  beauty  less  mature,  though  I 
remember  the  pretence  of  one  damsel  in  her  teens  that 
she  had  posed  for  the  Sapho  of  Pradier,  who  had  then 
been  dead  more  years  than  she  had  lived.  But  to 
them  all,  hardworking  through  a  few  years  at  most, 
the  precariously  paid  servants  of  a  precarious  trade,  a 
figure  painter  would  be  ill  inspired  if  he  did  not  feel  a 
sincere  good  fellowship  and  hearty  gratitude.  I  have 
known  them  uncomplainingly  to  pose  without  hire, 
every  available  moment  that  could  be  snatched  from 
their  paid  labour,  for  some  poor  fellow  ambitious  to 
finish  a  picture  for  the  Salon,  or  to  give  credit  far  be- 
yond their  means  to  those  bent  to  the  same  task  and 
unable  to  pay  for  the  moment.  Being  but  mortal,  and 
having  more  than  ordinary  temptation,  they  have  their 
faults;  but  the  studio  walls  see  many  little  kindnesses 
from  artist  to  model  and  model  to  artist,  and  the  rela- 
tion between  them,  though  one  of  circumstance  and 
chance,  and  moreover  absolutely  misunderstood  out- 
side the  Hmits  of  their  crafts,  has  many  unwritten 
histories  which  do  credit  to  both. 

Some  of  the  older  models,  as  I  have  said,  were  filled 
with  the  traditions  of  their  glorious  past,  and  I  call  to 
mind  one  of  our  comrades  who,  having  made  a  study 
for  an  ambitious  composition  representing  Alexander 
ordaining  the  burning  of  his  palace  at  the  termination 
of  a  feast,  called  upon  pere  Gelon  as  the  model  for  his 
principal  figure.  But,  after  a  long  and  careful  inspec- 
tion of  the  composition  sketch,  Gelon  nobly  refused  to 
take  the  pose  therein  indicated:   "Not  thus,"  quoth  the 


The  "Massier" 


L'ATELIER  CAROLUS-DURAN  19 

pere  Gelon,  "does  a  king  ordain  the  burning  of  his 
palace,  but  in  this  manner,"  giving  a  pose  inspired  by 
the  Oath  of  the  Horatii  by  David.  And  in  no  other 
way  would  he  pose,  and  the  submissive  artist  was 
forced  to  accept  the  hackneyed  attitude;  not  at  all  to 
the  advantage  of  his  picture. 

Another  figure  which  rises  from  the  memory  of  the 
old  ateher  is  Paul,  known  as  Van  Eyck,  from  his  fancied 
physical  resemblance  to  the  early  painter  of  that  name. 
Paul  was  the  colourman  who  every  Monday  morning 
appeared  in  the  ante-room  of  the  atelier  with  a  supply 
of  colours,  brushes,  and  canvas  of  the  required  sizes, 
for  our  academic  studies.  A  Norman  of  the  most  in- 
defatigable good  nature,  Paul,  in  the  highest  favour 
of  us  all,  was  then  in  the  employ  of  another,  but  many 
of  us  have  lived  to  see  and  rejoice  in  his  establishment 
as  a  dealer  on  his  own  account;  and  even  to  see  him, 
still  comparatively  young,  retire  from  business  with  a 
little  fortune,  and  divide  his  prosperous  colour  business 
between  his  son  and  daughter,  who,  married  in  their 
turn,  now  make  the  business  in  the  Rue  Notre  Dame 
des  Champs  suffice  for  their  respective  menages.  To 
Paul  Foinet  and  to  Madame  Foinet,  his  wife,  a  whole 
generation  of  customers  since  my  time  have  become 
friends.  Working  at  their  trade  Madame  Foinet  was 
ensconced  behind  the  counter,  with  a  mirror  con- 
veniently placed  so  she  could  watch  the  movements  of 
the  workmen  laboriously  grinding  colours  by  hand  in 
the  inner  room — "for,  you  see,"  she  explained,  "in 
order  to  make  the  work  easier  ces  gens  sans  conscience 
bring  little  vials  of  oil  in  their  pockets  to  add  to  the 
just  amount  which  we  give  them."     And  here  she  kept 


20        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

the  books  and  attended  to  customers  through  the  day. 
Meanwhile  Paul  would  shoulder  his  heavy  box  of 
colours  and  trudge  to  the  different  studios  of  his 
clients,  where,  with  a  cheery  word,  not  disdaining  a 
bit  of  gossip,  he  was  always  welcome.  Extending  a 
credit  virtually  unlimited,  this  worthy  couple  have 
amassed  a  little  fortune  with  few  bad  debts,  though  in 
many  cases  they  have  had  to  wait  long  for  the  settle- 
ment of  an  account.  "Where  we  have  lost,"  they  say, 
"it  is  generally  because  death  has  come  before  success." 
I  have  known  Madame  Foinet  to  hire  a  studio,  supply 
materials  and  pay  for  models  for  a  young  artist  of 
talent,  and,  since  the  influx  in  these  later  years  of 
young  women  art  students,  many  of  our  young  girl 
compatriots  have  reason  for  gratitude  to  this  kind 
woman,  who  has  seen  to  getting  fitting  lodgings,  and 
has  counselled  them  wisely  in  their  ignorance  of  cus- 
tom, to  say  nothing  of  selling  them  honest  colours  on 
long  credits.  They  number,  not  as  clients  merely, 
but  as  friends,  many  of  the  most  eminent  French 
artists,  and  the  writer  feels  justified  in  this  digression 
to  describe  two  of  a  class  of  Old  World  tradespeople 
for  whose  character  and  position  we  have  no  counter- 
part here.  It  would  indeed  be  base  ingratitude  to  do 
less,  for,  on  my  many  visits  to  Paris,  it  has  been  a 
pleasure  to  alight  at  54  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs 
to  shake  the  hands  extended  in  welcome;  and  often,  in 
the  little  back  shop,  share  a  good  dinner  and  a  so  ex- 
cellent bottle  of  wine  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
my  friend  Paul  w^as  brought  up  in  Normandy,  where 
they  drink  cider.  The  old  trade-mark — Foinet,  dit  Van 
Eyck — has  disappeared  from  the  backs  of  the  canvases, 


L'ATELIER  CAROLUS-DURAN  21 

and  is  replaced  by  that  of  the  younger  generation;  to 
which  I  wish  equal  success,  and  to  the  continuance  of 
whose  trade,  in  their  respective  shops,  I  am  pleased  to 
give  all  the  publicity  possible. 

Our  revolutionary  atelier  was,  in  point  of  fact,  one  of 
the  quietest  places  of  study  in  Paris,  The  horseplay 
of  initiation,  dangerous  to  life  and  limb,  and  occasion- 
ally to  the  self-respect  of  the  new  pupil,  which  was  the 
tradition  of  an  earlier  day,  was  in  little  favour  in  any 
of  the  studios;  but  in  ours,  with  the  preponderance  of 
the  Anglo-Saxon  element  which  had  no  such  tradition, 
there  were  no  ceremonies  of  any  kind,  save  that  it  was 
considered  proper  for  the  newcomer  to  "treat  the 
crowd."  This  was  a  modest  ceremony,  often  carried 
out  at  the  midday  adjournment  to  a  neighbouring 
restaurant,  so  that  we  exemplary  youths  might  not 
lose  time  at  our  morning's  work.  Naturally,  where 
twenty-five  or  thirty  were  gathered  together,  there  was 
occasionally  found  one  who  decided  that  it  was  not  his 
year  for  work,  and  who  required  instant,  vigorous,  but 
kindly  remonstrance  if  he  interfered  with  the  indus- 
trious. One  of  our  number,  who  was  gifted  with  a 
remarkable  musical  sense,  and  who  was,  moreover, 
rather  mondain  in  his  tastes,  would  bring  back  from 
his  excursions  to  the  theatres  across  the  Seine,  where 
we  seldom  ventured,  memories  of  the  Offenbach 
operettas,  then  much  in  vogue,  which  he  would  mimic 
for  our  benefit  in  a  surprising  manner.  He  apparently 
remembered  the  whole  orchestral  score  and  the  major 
part  of  the  libretto,  and  often  a  morning  would  go  by, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  our  work,  while  this  solo  per- 
former would  give  us  the  whole  of  "La  Belle  Helene" 


22        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

or  "La  Perichole."  Memories  of  other  schools  lead 
me  to  believe  that  our  perplexities  were  greater  by  the 
use  of  colour  from  the  outset,  in  pursuance  of  our 
master's  theories,  than  if  we  had  worked  with  charcoal 
in  monotone.  It  is  certain  that  work  was  unrelenting 
and,  until  the  later  days  of  the  school,  no  one  was 
sufficiently  proficient  in  his  task  to  spare  time  for  play. 
The  humorous  passages  were  in  a  minor  key,  as  when 
a  late  comer  opening  the  door  said,  with  profound 
politeness,  in  French:  "Gentlemen,  I  have  the  honour 
to  salute  you!"  No  answer  to  this  for  several  minutes, 
work  going  on  methodically  meanwhile,  then  from  a 
far  corner  a  voice  piped:  "The  honour  is  ours." 
Silence  once  more  for  an  appreciable  time  and  then, 
gravely  resuming  the  situation,  from  another  corner 
came,  "The  honour  is  shared  by  all";  while  the  work 
went  on. 

But  if  little  riotous  conduct  found  favour,  one  of  my 
old  comrades  must  still  remember  that  on  one  occa- 
sion, after  a  spasmodic  attempt  at  modeUing  in  clay 
in  the  atelier  Duran,  there  had  remained  a  large  sponge 
immersed  in  a  bucket  of  clay-stained  water.  One 
morning,  as  one  of  the  men  had  gone  into  the  ante- 
room for  some  purpose,  my  facetious  friend  took  this 
sponge  and,  seated  on  a  high  stool  before  the  door, 
announced  loudly  his  intention  of  "letting  'Becky' 
have  it"  when  he  entered.  The  door  opened,  and  he 
flung  the  sponge.  But  it  was  not  the  comrade;  it  was 
our  master,  brave  in  the  blue  velvet  coat  and  yellow 
silk  shirt  which  he  then  affected.  The  aim  was  true, 
and  for  a  horrid  moment  no  one  knew  what  was  about 
to   happen.     Then   the   master  withdrew,   closing  the 


L'ATELIER   CAROLUS-DURAN  23 

door  after  him,  and  another  time  of  suspense  followed, 
no  one  speaking,  and  the  unwilhng  culprit  seeking  his 
easel  in  sheer  despair.  Then  the  door  reopened,  the 
master,  his  disorder  repaired  by  the  aid  of  our  friend 
who  had  remained  in  the  anteroom,  appeared,  and  by 
a  few  sensible  words  brought  the  guilty  to  a  stammering 
apology  and  an  assurance  that  the  unlucky  sponge  was 
intended  for  a  fellow  student.  Our  master,  upon  occa- 
sion the  very  embodiment  of  high-strung  pride,  won 
our  hearts  that  day  by  proceeding  quietly  with  the 
lesson,  and  left  us  with  an  added  measure  of  respect 
for  him. 

Much  discussion  on  many  subjects  we  had  during  the 
hours  of  work,  and  in  the  intervals  of  the  ten  minutes' 
rest  which  each  hour  was  accorded  our  model,  various 
gymnastic  exercises  were  indulged  in.  But  my  chief 
recollection  is  that  of  hard  w^ork,  of  much  perplexity, 
and  a  deep-seated  despair  as  we  surveyed  our  studies 
in  comparison  with  the  living  model  before  us.  I  also 
remember  keenly  the  helpful  and  frank  criticism  we 
gave  each  other,  and  I  realize  that  in  the  common 
emulation  and  effort  at  the  attainment  of  the  same 
object  lies  the  chief  value  of  atelier  work.  The  criti- 
cisms of  a  master  are  of  great  value,  but  are  necessarily 
general  in  character;  the  example  of  he,  who  by  your 
side  is  doing  perhaps  a  little  better  than  you  in  ren- 
dering the  task  before  you,  constitutes  the  little  step 
of  progress  which  you  can  hope  to  make.  Velasquez 
shines  on  a  height  far  above  you,  unattainable,  yet  the 
first  round  of  the  ladder  has  been  cleared  by  Sargent 
at  your  side — surely  I  may  use  my  old  comrade's  name, 
even  in  his  present  eminence,  in  this  connection — and 


24        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

you  may  follow.  Many  of  our  men,  before  a  year  after 
the  atelier  opened,  had  made  such  progress  that  our 
master's  principles  were  vindicated;  and  though,  in 
the  four  or  five  years  where  I  was  a  more  or  less  diligent 
student — for  in  the  latter  time  my  presence  was  inter- 
mittent— I  never  made  a  study  that  seemed  to  me 
worth  keeping,  I  have  since  realized  how  much  I  owe 
to  my  studies  in  the  atelier  Duran. 


III. 

R.  A.  M.  S. 

IN  the  second  year  of  the  atelier  Duran,  in  1874, 
there  came,  after  a  sojourn  at  Antwerp,  where  the 
art  schools  had  not  met  his  approval,  a  new  addi- 
tion to  our  ranks.  Robert  Alan  Mowbray  Stevenson, 
whose  many  names  were  soon  shortened  to  Bob,  was  a 
man  five  or  six  years  older  than  most  of  us,  a  difference 
of  age  which,  when  one  is  barely  arrived  at  majority, 
means  much.  He  was,  moreover,  a  university  man, 
having  gone  through  Cambridge;  with  what  honour 
I  know  not,  and  his  humour  was  such  that  he  would 
never  disclose.  Judging  from  my  after  knowledge,  his 
university  years  must  have  been  given  to  the  acquire- 
ment of  much  odd  knowledge  outside  of  the  regular 
course.  He  could  be  earnest  enough  and  a  sedulous 
scholar,  but  I  cannot  imagine  restraint  sufficient  to 
keep  him  in  a  beaten  track;  he  must  have  strayed 
hither  and  yon  as  de  did  in  our  Paris  days — indeed,  to 
the  end  of  his  life. 

The  intimacies  of  youth  are  often  the  offshoot  of 
propinquity  and  circumstance.  In  that  careless  time 
one  can  dwell,  more  than  half  contentedly,  in  the  com- 
mon pursuits  of  school  or  pleasure  with  those  whose 
natures  may  be  most  at  variance  with  our  own,  and  so 
uncritical  and  lacking  in  judgment  is  youth  that  we 
are  often  drawn  by  superficial  affinities  to  those  who, 
in  more  mature  years,  we  would  recognize  at  once  as 

25 


26        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

unfitted  for  intimate  commerce.  Equally  true  is  it 
that  in  youth  we  have  strange,  unfounded  antipathies; 
our  future  friend  wears  his  hat  askew  or  parts  his  hair 
in  a  manner  unsympathetic,  and  we  view  him  with 
prejudiced  eyes.  Something  like  this  last  occurred  with 
Bob,  and  there  grew  up  at  once  a  strange  situation  of 
which  I  found  myself  the  centre.  I  must  first  explain 
that,  though  in  the  atelier  Duran,  I  was  not  altogether 
of  it.  The  necessity  of  making  a  living  had  taken  me 
from  my  birthplace  to  New  York  in  my  seventeenth 
year.  There,  favoured  by  the  extremely  small  demands 
which  illustration  at  that  time  made  in  the  way  of 
artistic  attainment,  I  had  managed  to  live  by  the 
meagre  resources  of  my  art.  Finding  few  of  my  age 
to  consort  with,  I  became  the  associate  of  men  and 
women  very  much  my  seniors.  I  was  probably  toler- 
ably precocious  and,  as  it  now  appears,  I  must  cer- 
tainly have  been  absurdly  morbid,  for  I  took  an  exag- 
gerated view  of  the  gravity  of  life,  which  seemed  to  me, 
in  view  of  the  extremely  unsuccessful  use  which  most 
of  my  associates  had  made  of  it,  to  be  hardly  worth 
living.  In  a  word,  I  had  a  veneer  of  vicarious  worldly 
experience,  which  I  had  accepted  as  it  was  given  me, 
when  a  chance  occurred  for  me  to  go  abroad  to  study 
my  art.  This  was  to  open  new  horizons  and  introduce 
me  to  an  existence  at  once  broader  and  more  sym- 
pathetic. New  York,  or  at  least  my  personal  environ- 
ment, had  been  intensely  provincial,  and  the  larger 
freedom  and  nobler  aims  of  Paris  soon  cleared  the 
mists  of  doubt,  which  were  probably  in  part  due  to 
the  physical  development  of  my  age. 

Before  my  departure   I   had   at  least  one  wise   in- 


R.  A.  M.  S.  27 

spiration,  for,  though  guiltless  of  knowledge  of  French 
or  of  France,  I  felt  that  to  profit  by  my  sojourn  there 
I  must  know  the  language  and  the  people.  The 
sculptor,  Olin  L.  Warner,  whose  too  early  death  by 
accident  in  1896  was  a  most  serious  loss  to  our  art, 
had  then  recently  returned  from  study  in  France,  and 
in  our  talks  together  I  learned  from  him  the  mistake 
which  so  many  of  our  compatriots  make  when  in  Paris 
of  seeking  only  the  society  of  their  compatriots,  ignoring 
the  language  and  life  of  France  and  shrouding  them- 
selves with  a  dense  mist  of  prejudice  which  allows  no 
ray  of  the  vast  intellectual  light  of  the  country  to  pene- 
trate. To  avoid  this  danger  I  adopted  a  Spartan 
course.  I  took  with  me  from  Warner  letters  to  some 
of  his  French  comrades;  letters  which  I  could  not  read 
to  men  who,  with  one  exception,  could  speak  no  Eng- 
Hsh.  He  who  could  speak  English  was  good  enough 
on  my  arrival  to  see  me  safely  lodged  in  a  furnished 
room  in  a  house  where  I  was  the  only  American;  and 
then,  with  my  other  letters,  I  threw  myself  on  the  mercy 
of  my  friend's  comrades.  They  were  young  sculptors, 
already  through  with  their  school  studies;  and  the 
kindness  with  which  they  took  me  in  hand,  convoyed 
me  to  their  restaurants  and  ordered  my  food,  bore  with 
my  pantomimic  efforts  at  expression,  and  initiated  me 
into  the  life  of  a  Paris  student,  with  infinite  patience 
and  good  nature,  defies  expression  even  at  this  late 
day,  though  my  gratitude  has  grown  with  my  years. 
The  first  effect  of  this  was,  naturally  enough,  a  militant 
approval  of  France  and  things  French.  When,  after  a 
brief  period  in  Gerome's  atelier  in  the  Ecole  des  Beaux- 
Arts,  whence  I  was  driven  by  a  short  illness,  I  was 


28        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

tempted  to  enter  the  atelier  Duran,  rather  for  the  better 
air  and  less  crowded  condition  of  the  studio  than  by 
convincing  admiration  for  my  proposed  master's  work, 
I  found  myself,  or  imagined  myself,  in  the  presence  of 
the  danger  which  I  wished  to  avoid,  as  the  studio  was 
essentially  American.  Hence  while  I  worked  there  I 
rather  avoided  the  society  of  my  comrades  out  of 
school  hours,  refusing  to  accompany  them  to  the  res- 
taurants where  they  most  resorted,  and  comporting 
myself  generally  as  one  who  would  avoid  their  com- 
pany. I  had  therefore  but  little  illusion  as  to  my 
popularity  in  the  class,  and  the  few  Frenchmen  who 
were  our  fellow-students,  as  their  after  careers  have 
proved,  were  neither  intelligent  nor  interesting.  The 
Anglo-Saxon,  however,  dominated  in  the  atelier  and, 
after  the  manner  of  his  kind,  with  the  arrogance  and 
self-sufficiency  which  earns  him,  wherever  he  penetrates, 
open  hatred  and  grudging  admiration.  For  myself,  in 
my  two  years'  hard  struggle  in  New  York,  I  had  at 
least  learned  a  certain  charity  for  those  who  differed  with 
me,  and  had  shed  some  of  the  youthful  intolerance  which 
sees  no  further  than  the  shadow  of  its  own  church  spire. 
He  who  seeks  to  conciliate  international  misunder- 
standings, firmly  set  upon  the  foundations  of  the  Tower 
of  Babel,  has  a  hard  lot.  In  my  own  case,  among  my 
French  comrades  I  was  accused  of  flaunting  the  flag 
of  my  country,  a  tort  et  a  travers,  on  all  occasions,  and 
in  the  atelier  I  was  beheved  to  have  sold  my  birthright 
as  a  citizen  of  our  proud  Republic  for  a  mess  of  French 
pottage — the  savoury  quality  of  which,  by  a  last  in- 
justice and  a  memory  of  home  larders,  my  opponents 
were  prepared  to  deny.     Therefore  when,  in  the  ab- 


R.  A.   M.  S.  29 

sence  of  this  newcomer  to  our  ranks — for  Bob  was  rather 
an  idle  apprentice  and  his  place  was  often  vacant — I 
took  up  his  defence,  it  did  not  help  his  case.  "'E's  a 
stranger,  'eave  'arf  a  brick  at  'im"  not  inaptly  de- 
scribes his  reception  among  us.  He  brought  a  new 
variety  of  difference  of  opinion,  and  forced  our  close 
corporation  to  new  and  novel  modes  of  defence,  which 
sorely  tried  the  dominant  government  of  the  trans- 
planted oasis  set  in  the  desert  of  Continental  custom. 
The  broad  sympathies,  the  opinions  based  on  an  al- 
ready wide  experience,  backed  by  a  store  of  acquired 
knowledge  which  no  other  one  of  us  possessed,  ex- 
pressed inimitably;  for  his  genius  (no  other  word 
suffices)  for  talk  was  greater  than  I  have  known  in 
any  man,  dispensed  with  aid  when  he  was  present. 
Not  that  his  talk  was  controversial;  it  began  on  a 
plane  far  above  argument;  with  careless  generosity 
granting  all  that  you  would  give  your  life  blood  to 
maintain,  and  then  by  twist  and  turn,  with  an  appar- 
ent and  honest  intent  not  to  dismiss  the  smallest  sub- 
ject before  every  phase  of  it  was  carefully  examined, 
your  premises  would  suddenly  give  way  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  years  would  lie  in  ruins  at  your  feet;  while, 
guided  by  his  skilful  hand,  you  soared  the  blue  em- 
pyrean of  speculative  thought.  From  our  accepted 
point  of  view,  that  to  our  human  ant-hill  each  insect 
must  add  his  grain  of  sand  as  an  excuse  for  existence, 
it  is  regrettable  that  no  one,  of  the  many  who  have 
listened  spellbound  to  this  rare  genius,  can  adequately 
record  enough  of  his  conversation  to  prove  the  work — 
I  use  the  word  advisedly — which  this  man  did  in  the 
world.     The  gift  of  his  cousin,  the  well-loved  R.  L.  S., 


30        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

was  both  greater  and  less.  His  talk,  shorn  of  much 
of  its  exuberance,  compressed  to  solidity,  and  in  the 
process  becoming  tangible,  lives  for  us  on  the  printed 
page.  He  had  the  more  common  endowment  of  the 
artist,  a  joy  in  his  craft,  the  necessity  of  basing  on  a 
lump  of  clay  the  chiselled  work  of  art.  In  this  he  was 
of  the  company  of  writers,  sculptors  and  painters,  the 
perfect  fruit  of  civilization,  if  you  will,  but  of  this 
earth  earthy;  capable  of  classification  and  ordered 
comparison  and,  in  a  world  where  beauty  is  use, 
greater  by  far  than  the  gift  of  the  less  definable  cousin 
Bob  was  akin  to  music,  the  art  which,  reproducing 
nothing,  based  on  naught  that  is  tangible,  is  yet  capable 
of  awakening  chords  untouched  by  painting,  sculpture, 
or  literature.  In  an  imaginary  republic  of  Art  and 
Letters  he  would  have  found  a  place  where  his  gift  of 
stimulating  sympathetic  intelligences  would  have  given 
him  a  position  among  the  most  useful  of  its  citizens. 
For  what  may  seem  his  cheerful  pessimism  to  a  super- 
ficial view  had  in  reality  nothing  of  the  doctrine  of 
cm  ^ono,  which  is  the  base  of  pessimism.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  have  never  known  a  spirit  more  appreciative 
and  hopefully  judicious  than  his,  and  numbers  of  men, 
borne  down  far  more  than  he  in  the  despair  of  doing 
aught  that  will  command  success,  yet  painfully  toiling 
to  add  their  mite  to  the  world's  accretion,  know  deep 
in  their  hearts  how  much  they  owe  to  his  wise  counsel 
and  discriminating  encouragement  in  giving  them  hope 
for  renewed  effort.  In  the  earher  years  of  their  in- 
separable intimacy,  the  elder  of  the  cousins  was  of  in- 
calculable help  to  the  younger,  as  R.  L.  S.  loyally  pro- 
claimed on  all  occasions. 


R.  A.  M.  S.  31 

Little  of  all  this  was  of  course  evident  when  this 
tempest  burst  in  the  teapot  of  our  school-room.  Only 
the  small  change  of  Bob's  wealth  of  conversational 
power  rattled  among  us,  but  the  effect  upon  a  troop  of 
healthy  young  human  animals  who  had  never  begun 
to  think,  but  who,  in  the  intervals  of  strenuous  en- 
deavour to  acquire  some  knowledge  of  a  difficult  trade, 
had  settled  most  of  the  important  questions  of  art  and 
morals  to  their  self-complacent  satisfaction,  can  be 
imagined.  As  I  had  been  the  chief  dissenter  up  to 
the  time  of  his  arrival  I  should  at  once  have  looked 
upon  him  as  an  ally,  but  that  my  own  intellectual  in- 
dependence, so  far  as  it  had  gone,  was  not  wholly 
exempt  from  the  "homely  wit"  with  which  we,  all 
"home-keeping  youths,"  were  tainted.  But,  after  a 
few  preliminary  skirmishes,  a  tacit  agreement  was 
reached  that  the  newcomer  was  not  to  be  aroused, 
and  in  his  presence  dangerous  subjects  were  avoided. 
No  sooner  did  he  absent  himself,  however,  than  the 
silenced  tongues  found  voice.  His  work  was  voted  to 
be  merely  tentative,  and  was  passed  over  lightly;  for  a 
sincere  respect  for  the  art  in  whose  difficulties  we  all 
floundered  was  a  notable  and  noble  feature  of  our 
little  band.  No  such  suspension  of  verdict  applied  to 
his  character  and  principles,  however,  and  with  a 
natural  indignation  at  attacks  on  one  who  was  not 
there  to  defend  himself  I  took  up  his  quarrel.  I  do 
not  wish  to  exaggerate  either  the  seriousness  of  the 
attack  nor  the  bravery  of  the  defence;  it  was  all,  as  I 
have  said  before,  of  the  tempest  and  teapot  order;  but 
from  weeks  of  more  or  less  good-natured  attack  and 
parry    I    emerged    as    the    constituted    champion    and 


32        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

intimate  friend  of  one  who,  out  of  school,  I  seldom 
saw  and  never  sought.  Nor,  as  I  found  afterward, 
was  Bob  conscious  of  the  situation  thus  created,  for 
during  this  time  he  had  no  more  interest  in  me  than 
I  in  him.  Indeed,  there  was  more  than  that  on  my 
side,  either  because  I  was  disaffected  by  the  criticisms 
of  my  opponents,  or  from  the  enigmatic  quality  which 
the  man  himself  presented.  In  either  case  the  winter 
wore  on,  and  more  than  once  I  remember  to  have 
crossed  a  street  to  avoid  meeting  my  comrade  of  the 
morning,  and  my  future  friend,  and  the  summer  of 
1874  came.  The  previous  year,  a  few  months  after  my 
arrival  in  France,  I  had  gone  to  a  little  village  near 
the  border  of  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  intending  to 
spend  the  summer  vacation.  I  had  heard  of  Barbizon 
as  the  resort  of  many  American  students  and,  in  my 
early  resolve  to  see  all  that  I  could  of  the  people  of 
France  and  to  avoid  my  compatriots,  I  had  determined 
to  find  a  place  for  myself.  By  a  roundabout  route  I 
had  chanced  upon  the  little  hamlet  of  Recloses,  about 
fifteen  miles  from  Barbizon  on  the  other  side  of  the 
forest.  Here  I  had  stopped  in  a  miserable  apology  for 
an  inn,  with  no  other  company  than  that  of  peasants, 
whose  one  relaxation  from  toil  was  poaching  in  the 
neighbouring  forest.  For  about  a  week  a  desperately 
homesick  boy  struggled  with  these  conditions  until  his 
resolution  gave  out.  On  a  beautiful  morning,  consult- 
ing Denincourt's  map,  I  made  my  way  through  the 
forest,  and  by  noon  was  seated  at  the  hospitable  board 
of  the  Hotel  Siron  in  Barbizon,  shamelessly  glad  to  be 
able  to  express  myself  freely  in  my  native  tongue,  and 
from  that  time  forth  for  many  years  Barbizon  was  to 


R.  A.   M.  S.  33 

be  the  spot  where  I  felt  myself  the  most  at  home.  I 
only  waited  for  the  closing  of  the  Duran  school  for  the 
midsummer  season  to  return  to  Barbizon  the  following 
year,  and  here  shortly  after  Bob  Stevenson  came  one 
evening  by  Lejosnes'  yellow  coach,  which  was  then  our 
only  link  with  the  railway  at  Melun.  This  was  the 
first  year  that  saw  the  influx  of  Hungarian,  German, 
and  Swedish  painters  at  Barbizon,  and  the  table  d'hote 
was  polyglot  and  noisy.  Siron's  hotel  was  built  around 
a  court,  a  rambling  structure  giving  evidence  of  gradual 
growth  and  added  construction  as  necessity  had  arisen. 
The  dining-room  looked  on  the  village  street  and  was 
panelled  with  wood,  on  which  all  my  and  the  preceding 
generation  had  painted  rather  indifferent  sketches. 
Long  tables  ran  around  three  sides  of  this  room,  a 
piano  which  was  inured  to  hard  usage  was  in  one 
corner,  and  a  fireplace  in  the  other.  For  the  modest 
sum  of  five  francs  a  day  augmented  occasionally  by 
"estrats,"  as  the  mysterious  spelling  of  our  host  had 
it,  we  wxre  furnished  with  very  good  food  and  lodging. 
As  the  hotel  proper  had  limited  accommodation  the 
lodgers  overflowed  to  various  peasant  houses,  as  well 
as  to  an  annex  which  contained  studios  as  well  as  bed- 
rooms which  Siron  had  caused  to  be  built  across  the 
street.  Munkacsy  was  there,  in  the  flush  of  his  first 
success  in  the  Salon,  as  was  Libermann,  a  German  Jew, 
with  blue-black  beard  and  a  marvellous  facility  for 
painting  in  two  or  three  different  styles;  in  one  of 
which  he  has  since  acquired  great  reputation;  Gaston 
Guinard,  then  a  young  man  of  fortune  enjoying  him- 
self in  the  society  of  artists  until,  through  sheer  force  of 
example,  he  began  to  paint,  who  has  since  become  a 


34        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

noted  animal  painter;  Olivier  de  Penne,  a  relic  of  the 
days  of  the  court  of  the  Second  Empire  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  witty  and  cynical,  openly  regretting  the  Bona- 
parte dynasty,  apparently  never  at  work,  yet  producing 
constantly  pictures  of  surprising  numbers  and  merit; 
Hill,  a  Swede,  whose  motto,  "//  faiit  faire  dc  la  heindure 
nouvelhy'  as  he  pronounced  it,  became  a  byword  with 
us  and  whose  talent  was  such  that,  but  for  his  early 
death,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  done  painting  that 
was  both  novel  and  convincing;  all  these  and  many 
more  were  gathered  around  the  tables  at  Siron's  that 
summer.  Ridgway  Knight  and  Henry  Bacon,  then 
and  still  domiciled  in  France,  were  there;  Peppercorn 
and  Johnson,  since  well  known  in  England,  Wyatt 
Eaton,  Stevenson,  myself,  and  a  few  others,  made  up 
the  English-speaking  contingent.  The  early  morning 
saw  us  all  astir,  and  a  generous  bowl  of  coffee  and  a 
bit  of  bread  under  the  arbour  at  the  back  of  the  hotel 
having  been  disposed  of,  we  separated  to  our  work. 
Those  who  went  far  into  the  forest  took  a  lunch  with 
them,  the  others,  working  on  the  plain  or  in  the  peas- 
ants' houses  in  the  village,  met  again  at  noon.  But 
it  was  about  sunset  that  one  by  one  we  entered  the 
courtyard,  shifted  our  loads  of  painting  materials  from 
our  shoulders  to  the  ground,  and  placed  our  freshly 
painted  studies  against  the  wall  of  the  house.  Then 
would  come  an  hour  of  mutual  criticism  of  our  work, 
as  seated  at  little  round  tables,  conveniently  placed,  we 
absorbed  various  "estrats"  in  the  guise  of  vermouth, 
or  strolled  from  one  canvas  to  the  other.  Many  a 
helpful  word  came  at  these  times,  criticisms  and  sug- 
gestions  as   various   as   the   nationalities   represented; 


R.  A.   M.   S.  35 

and  the  cheerful  witticism  was  by  no  means  debarred. 
Indeed,  one  such  word  I  remember,  as  appHed  to  a  semi- 
decorative  attempt  of  my  own,  where  my  love  for  the 
primitive  masters  in  the  Louvre  had  ill  inspired  me. 
One  of  our  number  was  a  young  Indianian,  John  Love 
by  name.  Love  is  of  the  number  whose  early  death 
makes  these  recollections  read  like  a  mortuary  record; 
but  I  can  see  him  now,  lank  of  limb  and  fair  of  feature, 
with  kindly  eyes,  as  he  surveyed  my  performance  and 
then,  with  a  native  drawl  said:  "If  I  were  you,  I'd 
change  my  style,  or  learn  how  to  draw."  I  am  glad  to 
say  that  my  sense  of  humour  was  sufficient  to  permit 
me  to  translate  into  our  common  tongue  of  com- 
munication this  discomfiting  appreciation,  and  to  join 
in  the  laugh  it  excited  by  its  aptness. 

Some  of  the  men,  however,  had  been  to  see  me, 
Munkacsy  especially,  who  with  native  impetuousness 
had  complimented  me  far  beyond  my  deserts;  and 
some  echo  of  this  had  reached  Bob  Stevenson.  He 
that  summer  had  done  work  much  superior  to  the  few 
studies  painted  in  the  Duran  atelier;  work  which  I 
remember  was  hailed  by  the  Swedish  exponent  of  "la 
beindure  nouvelle,"  Hill,  as  of  great  promise.  Hill's 
own  work  was  good  enough  to  make  his  approval 
valuable,  and  one  of  Bob's  studies,  especially,  comes 
back  to  me  as  having  something  of  the  novelty  of  com- 
position and  brilliancy  of  colour,  which  only  became 
the  property  of  the  modern  painter  at  the  first  com- 
prehensive exhibition  of  the  Impressionists  two  years 
later.  In  writing  of  Bob  I  am  speaking  of  an  un- 
successful painter,  one  who  after  years  of  discourage- 
ment, even  from  those  who  would  have  better  liked  to 


36        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

praise,  virtually  relinquished  the  brush  and  all  un- 
willingly took  up  the  pen.  I  cannot  pretend  to  have 
followed  his  work,  for  during  the  period  of  his  struggle 
we  were  on  opposite  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  and  conse- 
quently I  only  knew  of  his  ultimate  trial  and  his  failure 
by  report.  Assiduity  in  these  early  days  was  absent 
from  his  effort,  the  spectacle  of  the  world  then,  as  later, 
holding  first  possession  of  his  nature;  and  intermittence 
of  effort  is  as  great  an  enemy  as  the  painter,  young  or 
old,  can  encounter.  But  this  alone  is  not  enough  to 
explain  my  friend's  failure  as  a  painter;  for  many  as 
idle  as  he  have,  through  encouragement,  acquired  in- 
dustry. It  must  be  remembered  that  painting  at  that 
time,  at  least  in  France,  was  singularly  oblivious  of  the 
charm  of  colour.  Efficiency  in  drawing,  often  lacking 
in  style  but  aiming  at  veracity,  and  a  close  attention 
to  values,  as  the  qualities  of  hght  and  dark  resident 
in  each  and  every  tone  (not  light  and  shade,  chiaro- 
scuro, which  is  an  entirely  different  thing),  are  tech- 
nically known,  constituted  the  chief  equipment  of  the 
painter.  Of  colour,  per  se^  either  in  its  realistic  aspect 
in  rendering  nature  or  in  its  decorative  quality,  little 
was  said,  even  by  Duran,  in  his  instruction;  and  in 
the  production  of  the  time  the  same  lack  is  evident. 
Stevenson's  gift  as  a  painter,  in  so  far  as  he  was  gifted, 
was  in  the  direction  of  colour;  and  I  remember  certain 
studies  where  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had  developed  the 
latent  colour  of  the  objects  represented  to  a  quite  re- 
markable degree.  Work  much  later  of  his,  which  I 
have  seen,  had  these  same  quahties  overemphasized 
until  they  became  the  defect  of  his  merit,  but  I  have 
always   felt   that   under   conditions   more   sympathetic 


R.   A.   M.   S.  37 

than  he  found  after  his  return  to  England,  something 
would  have  resulted  from  this  quality,  which,  at  the 
period  I  speak  of,  few  of  his  comrades  shared  in  any 
considerable  degree.  Sincerely  admiring  much  that 
he  did  as  a  painter,  though  our  chance  meetings  at 
Siron's  table  d'hote  had  not  as  yet  vanquished  the 
vague  prejudice  I  felt  for  the  man,  I  was  flattered 
when  one  day  he  asked  permission  to  come  to  my  room 
and  see  my  summer's  work.  This  was  quite  at  the 
end  of  the  season,  most  of  our  gay  company  had  dis- 
persed, and  we  were  left,  half  a  dozen  or  so  belated  in 
the  effort  to  finish  work,  before  we  in  turn  took  flight. 

Little  incidents  take  disproportionate  size  in  retro- 
spect. The  courtesies  prevailing  in  our  motley  assem- 
blages were  of  the  slightest,  the  many  varying  forms  of 
good  manners,  proper  to  our  various  countries,  had 
been  simplified  to  a  species  of  Volapuk,  which  sufficed; 
and,  as  usual,  by  far  the  least  courteous  of  the  number 
were  the  English  and  Americans. 

I  was  therefore  quite  unprepared  for  the  extremely 
courteous,  though  not  in  the  least  formal,  manner  in 
which  Stevenson  asked  this  slight  privilege  of  inspecting 
my  work.  I  saw  afterward  many  examples  of  this 
curious  courtesy,  quite  unlike  that  habitual  among  men 
of  decent  breeding,  which  was  peculiar  to  my  friend. 
I  have  seen  it  in  various  companies  high  and  low,  and  I 
realize  how  difficult  it  is  to  convey  any  impression  of  it. 
Not  deferential  nor  insinuating,  a  certain  grave  yet 
gallant  tone  characterised  it,  which  lifted  its  object  to 
a  plane  quite  superior  to  that  of  the  ordinary  small 
amenities  of  intercourse.  Surprised  at  this  new  glimpse 
of  my  many-sided  companion,  pleased  beyond  measure 


38        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

to  be  the  object  of  this  distinguished  approach,  I  pro- 
posed an  instant  adjournment — we  were  taking  our 
coffee  after  dejeuner — to  see  the  works  in  question. 

Knowing  from  the  work  that  I  had  seen  that  my 
visitor's  aims  were  other  than  my  own,  it  was  with  a 
half-hearted  interest  that  I  displayed  the  work  of  my 
summer.  But  in  the  character  of  his  not  overenthusi- 
astic  appreciation  I  soon  learned  that  which,  so  many 
years  later  and  in  too  scant  measure,  the  English-reading 
public  discovered  in  the  author  of  the  monograph  on 
Velasquez.  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  critic,  subtle 
and  unprejudiced,  clear  in  his  understanding,  even 
more  clear  in  the  exposition  of  his  conclusions. 

Again  I  find  myself  in  danger  of  conveying  to  my 
reader  an  impression  of  exaggerating  a  small  event,  an 
exchange  of  views  between  two  students  in  the  presence 
of  unimportant  work.  The  lapse  of  years  has,  how- 
ever, but  little  dimmed  the  sense  of  the  unusual  that 
this  trivial  event  left  on  my  mind,  and  it  must  be  re- 
membered that  at  the  time  I  knew  scores  of  art  stu- 
dents and  had  figured  as  actor  or  spectator  in  many 
such  casual  critical  meetings.  Moreover,  since  that 
time  instructing  in  my  turn,  I  have  known  many  stu- 
dents of  art  and  have  made  conscientious  endeavour  to 
penetrate  their  modes  of  thought  to  find  among  the 
number  none  who  could  be  compared  to  Robert  Alan 
Mowbray  Stevenson. 

The  words  of  my  friend's  critical  appreciation  have 
flown  upon  the  wings  which  have  carried  so  many  of 
his  wise  and  fanciful  words  beyond  the  ken  of  man. 
The  import  of  it  all  was  the  recognition  that,  while  I 
was  undoubtedly  "out  of  the  game,"  I  might  still  take 


R.  A.   M.   S.  39 

heart  in  the  example  of  many  men  whose  names  I  knew, 
whose  works  I  had  studied  and  admired,  but  who  were, 
in  the  estimation  of  most  of  my  comrades,  either  so 
long  dead  or,  if  still  living,  so  forgotten  that  they 
counted  for  little.  It  seems  strange  that  at  that  time 
the  names  of  men  considered  important  to-day  were, 
if  not  unknown,  at  least  never  cited  as  examples  in  the 
little  world  of  art  students.  With  Stevenson  alone  I 
found  a  more  tempered  than  my  own  but  adequate 
appreciation  for  the  primitive  masters.  Botticelli  and 
Filippo  Lippi  were  known  to  him  and  considered  to  be 
more  than  "historically"  important;  Chardin,  for  his 
unique  gift  as  a  painter's  painter,  and  Prud'hon,  for  his 
nobility  of  form,  grace  of  line,  and  subtlety  of  Hght 
and  shade,  were  living  influences,  rather  than  half- 
forgotten  painters  of  a  preceding  time;  while  Poussin 
he  taught  me  to  appreciate,  and  Millet  I  was  to  make 
him  know  later  on.  I  found  that,  like  myself,  he  had 
discovered  the  Renaissance  gallery  of  sculpture,  then 
half  hidden  in  its  wing  of  the  Louvre,  lacking  com- 
munication with  the  more  visited  galleries,  and  had 
made  acquaintance  with  the  since  well  known  "Un- 
known Woman"  and  with  the  epitome  of  grace  in  the 
works  of  Jean  Goujon.  The  then  derided  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  had  interested  him.  Baudry,  who  not  long 
before  I  had  been  told  was  merely  a  "good  official 
talent,"  we  voted  a  "great  swell,"  and,  last  of  all,  he 
quite  gained  my  heart  by  sharing  my  admiration  for 
the  great  works  of  Primaticcio  and  Rosso,  decadent 
though  they  may  be,  in  the  neighbouring  chateau  of  Fon- 
tainebleau;  works  to  which  I  had  been  directed  by  no 
less  a  man  than  Millet.     I  was  to  learn  later  his  catholic 


40        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

appreciation  of  Titian,  Veronese,  Rubens,  Rembrandt, 
and  Velasquez,  giants  all,  but  not  lacking  admiration 
from  all  our  comrades,  in  which  we  agreed. 

"  But  why,  with  your  ideas,  are  you  studying  with 
Duran,  the  realist  of  realists,  when  there  are  other  men 
in  Paris  much  nearer  your  game?"  he  asked  in  con- 
clusion. 

"Baudry  will  not  take  pupils  and  Duran  may  help 
me  put  flesh  and  blood  into  my  nymphs,"  was  my 
reason;  which  he  flatteringly  thought  intelligent,  and 
since,  with  a  realizing  sense  of  what  I  owe  to  my 
master,  irrespective  of  the  success  of  my  endeavour,  I 
have  myself  thought  my  decision  to  be  fortunate. 

The  outcome  of  this  talk,  and  those  of  the  few  re- 
maining days  of  our  stay  at  Barbizon  that  season,  was 
that  we  departed  for  Paris  sworn  friends  of  closest  in- 
timacy; with  the  resolution  that,  if  a  studio  at  "eighty- 
one"  was  procurable,  my  new  friend  should  become 
my  near  neighbour.  And  thus  it  was  that  Bob  lived 
over  the  loge  of  the  concierge  across  the  court  from 
me. 


IV 
VEUVE  PONCELET'S  AND  LAVENUE'S 

IT  was  mid-November  before  we  were  finally  settled 
in  Paris  for  our  winter  work,  and  the  alternation 
of  the  morning  study  in  the  adjacent  school,  the 
afternoon  work  in  our  studios,  visits  to  the  galleries  or 
long  rambles  in  all  quarters  of  the  beloved  city  with 
small  attendant  adventures,  modest  dinners  in  various 
restaurants,  long  prolonged  in  flow  of  talk,  followed 
day  by  day.  Bob,  as  I  soon  learned,  was  living  upon 
the  principal  of  his  small  fortune,  finding  the  interest 
inadequate  for  his  support,  a  solution  of  the  financial 
problem  which  at  the  time  seemed  to  both  of  us  judi- 
cious and  satisfactory.  He  was  thus  supplied  with 
money,  small  in  amount  but  sufficient  for  the  modest 
needs  of  a  student,  with  a  regularity  which,  toward  the 
end  of  every  month,  excited  my  admiration  and  envy. 
A  number  of  years  later,  after  my  return  home,  I 
remember  his  writing  me  that  he  was  enabled  to  live 
"by  a  succession  of  small  miracles";  and  this  phrase 
best  describes  my  own  situation  during  most  of  my 
Paris  life.  Consequently  there  was  a  disparity  in  our 
state  of  fortune  which  often,  to  our  mutual  regret, 
denied  me  the  privilege  of  seeking  the  restaurants 
which  my  friend  frequented.  Lavenue's,  still  existing 
and  less  changed  than  many  other  resorts  of  my  youth 
in  Paris,  was  the  principal  one  of  these.  With  La- 
venue's  I  had  made  acquaintance  the  previous  year  by 
virtue  of  a  doctor's  prescription. 

41 


42        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

Immediately  on  my  arrival  in  Paris  I  had  delivered, 
as  I  have  already  told,  certain  letters  of  presentation 
in  the  then  to  me  unknown  language  of  the  country. 
One  of  them  was  addressed  to  Adrien  Gaudez,  whom 
I  found  w^orking  in  the  employ  of  another  sculptor  in 
a  spacious  studio  in  the  Rue  de  I'Abbaye,  the  former 
situation  of  one  of  the  most  densely  filled  prisons  of 
the  Reign  of  Terror.  Gaudez,  then  nearing  thirty,  was 
of  the  robust  race  of  Burgundy,  of  middle  stature, 
compactly  knit,  his  head  with  curling  hair  and  beard 
like  that  of  Bacchus,  and  an  eye  at  once  so  clear,  keen^ 
and  winning  that  I  have  known  few  men  of  more  pre- 
possessing appearance.  The  letter  explaining  the 
identity  and  purpose  of  the  mute  youth  he  understood 
at  once,  and  with  kindly  humour  he  at  last  succeeded 
in  making  me  understand,  by  pointing  to  the  hour  of 
six  on  the  dial  of  a  watch,  that  I  was  to  return  to  the 
studio  at  that  hour,  the  time  of  my  visit  being  about 
two  in  the  afternoon.  At  the  appointed  hour  I  again 
presented  myself,  and  under  his  guidance,  and  being 
joined  en  route  by  one  or  two  others,  we  proceeded  the 
length  of  the  Rue  de  Rennes  as  far  as  the  Boulevard  du 
Mont  Parnasse;  then,  turning  to  the  right,  we  found  the 
Hne  of  cheap  restaurants  which  still  exist  for  the  re- 
freshment of  the  cockers  connected  w4th  the  railway 
station.  About  midway  of  the  block  we  entered  one 
of  these.  Before  the  door  was  the  usual  zinc  counter 
of  the  marchand  du  vin,  in  a  room  where  at  metallic 
tables  sat  a  number  of  the  uniformed  knights  of  the 
whip,  and  workingmen  in  blouses.  To  the  right  and 
back  of  the  counter  ran  a  dark  passageway  in  which 
we  entered   and,   passing   through   the   kitchen   at   its 


VEUVE   PONCELET'S  AND  LAVENUE'S  43 

end,  we  found  ourselves  in  a  small  paved  court.  From 
this  we  entered  a  detached  building  of  one  story  con- 
taining two  rooms.  The  first  of  these  rooms,  as  I 
afterward  learned,  was  reserved  for  a  band  of  medical 
students,  with  whom,  though  for  a  long  period  we 
passed  through  their  dining-room  twice  a  day  with  a 
polite  "bon  jour,"  we  never  made  acquaintance.  Be- 
yond, and  looking  out  on  the  gardens  of  adjoining 
houses,  was  a  similar  room  reserved  for  those  known 
in  our  little  circle  as  the  "bande  a  Gaudez."  We  had 
a  merry  dinner,  due,  though  I  hardly  com.prchended  it 
at  the  time,  to  the  initiation  of  the  new  member  from 
overseas;  and  with  the  ten  or  dozen  men  crowded  into 
that  little  room  I  was  to  live  on  terms  of  more  or  less 
intermittent  intimacy  for  the  space  of  five  years.  When 
I  think  of  the  constant  kindness  with  one  so  tongue-tied 
as  to  constantly  demand  their  attention  for  the  most 
trivial  affairs  of  life,  gratitude  fails  of  expression.  They 
were  all  young  sculptors  and  painters,  some  lingering 
in  the  schools  hoping  to  obtain  the  Prix  du  Rome,  one 
of  them,  Rixens,  succeeding  a  few  years  later;  another, 
with  a  downy  blond  beard  and  a  face  denoting  pugna- 
cious determination  to  succeed,  Bastien  I  heard  him 
called,  and  as  Bastien-Le  Page,  failing  rather  gloriously 
to  win  the  coveted  prix,  becoming  famous  later;  others 
out  of  school,  some  of  them  to-day  well-known  sculp- 
tors and  painters  in  France;  and  others,  to  us  then 
appearing  equally  talented,  quite  unknown  or  lying  in 
forgotten  graves.  As  we  cannot  remember  how  as 
children  we  make  our  first  essays  in  expression  by 
language,  so,  to-day,  I  fail  to  comprehend  when  my 
bonds  were  loosed  and  I  could  communicate  with  my 


44        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

new-found  friends.  Necessity  is  undoubtedly  a  most 
efficient  teacher  of  languages,  and  from  the  day  when, 
in  answer  to  my  pantomimic  inquiry  as  to  the  nature 
of  the  food  before  me,  one  of  my  clever  friends  drew  a 
pair  of  long  ears  and  caused  me  to  apprehend  donkey, 
when  it  was  the  innocuous  rabbit,  I  made  rapid  progress 
in  French.  The  food  was  certainly  of  more  or  less 
mysterious  quality,  though  not  unpalatable,  but  its 
modest  price  was  its  chief  recommendation.  With 
hard  work  in  the  school,  the  healthy  appetite  of  youth, 
our  merry  company  at  table,  and  the  privacy  of  the 
little  dining-room  where  none  but  of  our  choice  were 
allowed  to  penetrate,  I  esteemed  myself  fortunate 
until,  after  a  few  months,  I  began  to  feel  a  strange 
weakness  and  lassitude  growing  on  me.  It  was  in 
the  midwinter  of  rain  and  penetrating  cold,  which 
belies  the  moderate  degree  it  marks  on  the  ther- 
mometer, which  we  overheated  Americans  feel  so 
keenly  in  our  winters  in  Paris,  and  I  laid  it  to 
that.  But  as  it  became  more  persistently  alarm- 
ing, I  sought  the  counsel  of  Doctor  Desseins.  This 
old  gentleman,  long  since  gone  to  his  reward,  had 
looked  after  the  health  of  the  artists  of  the  quarter  for 
many  years,  and  with  his  long  gray  locks  he  was  not 
unlike  a  painter  of  the  generation  where  artistic  tem- 
perament expressed  itself  in  capillary  exuberance;  but 
his  tonics  did  me  but  little  good.  One  day  at  my 
studio,  where  I  had  for  a  few  days  been  imprisoned  by 
this  malaise,  he  questioned  me  as  to  my  diet.  When  I 
mentioned  the  name  of  our  little  restaurant  he  became 
at  once  excited  and  denounced  the  nourishment  of  all 
such  places  as  slow  poison.     "Food  is  what  you  need. 


VEUVE   PONCELET'S   AND   LAVENUE'S   45 

food  for  a  young  growing  animal.  There's  a  good 
restaurant  on  the  corner — Lavenue's;   go  there." 

"But,"  I  mildly  objected,  "Lavenue's  is  expensive 
and  I  have  little  money." 

"You  can  probably  get  credit."  "Yes,  but  I  have 
no  prospect  of  being  able  to  pay."  The  good  doctor, 
victim  of  the  general  misunderstanding  that  all  Amer- 
icans must  of  necessity  be  wealthy,  at  last  was  made  to 
understand  the  extreme  tenuity  of  my  resources;  but 
his  final  injunction  and  only  prescription  was  to  dine 
at  Lavenue's  as  often  as  possible. 

Upon  the  boulevard  Lavenue's,  especially  since  its 
restoration  in  these  latter  days,  shows  the  outward 
signs  of  the  first-class  and  expensive  restaurant — a  place 
to  be  shunned  by  even  the  most  sybaritic  student.  At 
the  extremity  of  the  angle  of  the  corner  upon  which  it 
stands — upon  the  other  street,  the  Rue  de  I'Arrivee — 
one  enters  upon  a  more  reassuring  and  modest  room 
with  a  glorified  specimen  of  the  wine  merchant's  zinc 
counter,  over  v/hich  presides  as  cashier  the  perennial 
Mademoiselle  Fanny.  This  buxom  lady,  who  makes 
out  the  restaurant  bills  in  a  cursive  caligraphy  which 
defies  the  most  earnest  study  to  discover  the  names  of 
the  dishes  ordered,  I  call  perennial,  for  it  is  now  a 
matter  of  thirty  years  that  I  have  known  her  in  her 
neatly  fluted  white  cap,  her  portly  person  flanked  by 
dishes  of  tempting  fruit,  and  her  high  coloured  visage 
relieved  against  a  row  of  many  coloured  liqueurs;  and 
in  that  space  of  time  she  has  not  progressed  beyond 
the  becoming  middle  age  of  the  time  of  our  first  ac- 
quaintance. Nor  is  this  the  only  mystery  connected 
with  her,  for  at  the  time  of  my  first  knowledge  of  the 


46        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

house  she  serves,  her  throne  was  occupied  by  a  person 
of  precisely  similar  appearance,  whom  I  knew  as  Mad- 
emoiselle Rosalie.  There  was  a  lapse  of  some  eight 
years  that  Lavenue's  knew  me  not,  as  I  was  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic  during  that  time,  but  on  my  return- 
ing to  Paris  and  seeking  my  cherished  resort,  I  saluted 
the  presiding  divinity  as  I  stopped  to  speak  to  my 
presumed  old  acquaintance,  by  the  name  of  Mad- 
emoiselle Rosalie.  The  name  she  quietly  disclaimed, 
though,  from  business  reasons  I  fear,  she  professed  to 
know  me  well  and  to  have  deplored  my  long  absence. 
From  delicacy,  fearing  that  the  present  Fanny  may 
replace  a  twin  sister  Rosalie  snatched  from  her  proud 
eminence  by  grim  death,  I  have  always  forborne  to 
probe  further  this  mystery  of  resemblance;  but,  Rosalie- 
Fanny  or  Fanny-Rosalie,  the  restaurant  Lavenue  has 
been  fortunate  in  possessing  through  a  generation  this 
smiling  evidence  of  the  good  fare  to  be  had  within. 
Passing,  with  a  word  to  Mademoiselle  Fanny,  one  enters 
an  inner  room  lined  with  tables  which,  save  for  the  mod- 
ern electric  lights  and  the  addition  of  a  glass  extension 
upon  the  further  side  where  in  the  earlier  days  a  garden 
existed,  has  little  changed  since  I  first  saw  it.  The 
napery  is  spotless,  the  waiters,  through  long  association 
with  artists  and  writers,  a  shade  less  solemn  than  in 
restaurants  of  the  same  merit,  the  cooking  excellent, 
and  the  cellar  well  provided.  A  tradition  that  the 
prices  in  this  room  are  less  than  in  the  portion  of  the 
restaurant  upon  the  boulevard,  a  tradition  which  I  have 
never  verified,  its  greater  seclusion  and  more  modest 
appearance  has  made  it  for  many  years  the  dining 
place  of  the  "arrived"  artists  of  the  quarter.     In  my 


VEUVE  PONCELET'S  AND  LAVENUE'S  47 

day  and  even  now  it  is  little  or  not  at  all  frequented  by 
the  students.  As  a  rule,  the  Lavenue  habit  is  con- 
temporaneous at  the  earliest  with  the  acceptance  of  a 
first  picture  or  statue  at  the  Salon,  when  the  neophyte 
may  be  pardoned  for  considering  himself  a  full-fledged 
artist.  To-day  our  tongue  is  heard  there  often,  for  the 
influx  of  Americans  and  English  to  the  Mont  Parnasse 
quarter  has  been  very  great  since  the  days  here  de- 
scribed; but  in  my  too  infrequent  earlier  visits  I  think 
I  was  alone  of  my  nationality  as  I  sat  in  a  corner 
modestly,  surrounded  by  red  buttonholed  painters  and 
sculptors,  all  endowed,  in  my  imagination,  with  celeb- 
rity, and  many  of  whom  were  indeed  eminent.  By 
careful  scrutiny  of  the  menu  a  poor  student  could 
procure  a  sustaining,  and  to  his  then  gastronomic  ex- 
perience, a  supremely  succulent  repast  at  a  price  which 
did  not  inordinately  stretch  his  purse.  Care  was  indeed 
necessary,  as  on  one  occasion  in  the  early  spring,  when 
the  presence  of  asparagus  for  the  first  time  on  the  bill 
of  fare  overcame  the  dictates  of  prudence,  and  the 
decision  to  recklessly  expend  three  francs  surprised  the 
venerable  waiter,  who  was  a  living  image  of  Louis 
Phillipe,  ci-devant  King  of  the  French,  into  a  respectful 
reminder,  "Monsieur  does  not  ignore  that  asperges 
nouvelles  is  a  primeur."  The  good  old  boy  had  prob- 
ably been  long  a  sympathetic  witness  of  my  efforts  to 
conscientiously  reconcile  the  pleasing  prescription  of 
Dr.  Dessein  with  the  modicity  of  my  resources,  and  I 
thanked  him  for  his  timely  warning. 

To  Lavenue's,  to  whose  delights  I  introduced  Bob 
on  our  return  to  Paris,  I  was  unable  to  accompany  him 
as  much  as  I  could  wish.     For  the  delight  of  my  society, 


48        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

as  he  politely  phrased  it,  he  occasionally  accompanied 
me  to  the  Widow  Poncelet's,  as  our  modest  restaurant 
was  known,  from  the  name  of  the  soberly  garbed  and 
sad-eyed  proprietor.  Of  the  company  assembled  there, 
of  my  French  friends,  he  approved  heartily;  of  my 
nrentor  Gaudez  especially;  though,  indeed,  I  have 
never  known  man — or  woman — to  resist  his  sunny  in- 
fluence. Upon  the  question  of  the  food  he  had  decided 
reservations;  though,  warned  by  my  experience  of  the 
previous  year,  beefsteaks  of  surprising  thinness  but  of 
some  probable  sustenance  enabled  me  to  avoid  more 
savoury,  though  more  dubious,  compounds.  It  was 
my  friend's  whim,  when  thus  accompanying  me,  to 
order  large  numbers  of  hard-boiled  eggs,  upon  the  plea 
that  by  its  conformation  the  boiled  egg  ran  no  risk  of 
lack  of  cleanliness  in  preparation;  while  a  careful  in- 
spection, when  once  the  shell  was  broken,  would  re- 
assure the  consumer  as  to  its  relative  age.  Not  in- 
frequently this  happy  band,  regardless  of  the  season, 
would  vote  an  adjournment  after  the  dejeuner,  by  the 
easy  means  of  the  near-by  railway,  to  some  country 
place  near  Paris;  and  the  woods  of  Chaville,  or  nearer 
Clamart,  would  re-echo  with  our  laughter.  If  it  was 
winter  a  brisk  walk  through  the  deserted  alleys  in  the 
blink  of  frosty  sunshine  set  our  blood  in  circulation, 
and  resort  was  always  had,  before  our  return  to  Paris, 
to  an  inn  where  a  copious  bowl  of  hot  mulled  wine  was 
ordered  and  despatched.  If  it  was  summer  or  early 
spring  there  was  a  certain  inn  half  lost  in  the  woods  of 
Chaville,  in  the  little  hamlet  of  Velezay,  where  a  dinner 
of  sorrel  soup,  a  rabbit  stew,  and  a  salad  of  crisp 
romaine,  redolent  with  chives,  chervil,  and  all  manner 


VEUVE   PONCELET'S  AND   LAVENUE'S  49 

of  fragrant  herbs,  followed  by  a  large  segment  of 
creamy  Brie  cheese,  was  to  be  had,  washed  down  by  a 
red  vin  du  pays  that  was  almost  blue.  This  simple 
repast,  partaken  out  of  doors  in  a  leafy  arbour,  en- 
livened by  talk  and  songs,  lasted  till  late  in  the  evening, 
when  we  returned  to  Paris  by  the  last  train  unless,  as 
sometimes  happened,  we  lingered  too  long,  in  which 
case  we  valiantly  trudged  home  on  foot. 

I  do  not  wish,  by  this  chapter  devoted  to  dietary 
questions,  to  give  the  impression  that  the  pleasures  of 
the  table  occupied  an  undue  proportion  of  our  lives. 
We  were  endowed,  undoubtedly,  with  the  appetites  of 
our  time  of  life,  and  indeed  many  of  our  pleasantest 
experiences  throughout  existence  centre  about  the 
table,  but  I  remember  my  own  forebodings  in  my  early 
days  in  Paris  at  what  seemed  to  me  an  inordinate 
length  of  time  passed  over  lunches  and  dinners;  which, 
as  I  have  explained,  were  generally  the  reverse  of 
luxurious,  it  is  true,  but  precious  hours  seemed,  to  my 
ignorance,  to  be  lost  there.  I  had  come  fresh  from 
New  York,  where  the  gobbled  midday  meal  had  seemed 
a  necessary  rite  in  order  to  profit  by  the  daylight  hours. 
We  have  become  wiser  since  then  and  somewhat  less 
in  a  hurry,  but  as  I  found  these  things  ordered  in 
France,  my  first  thought  was  that  I  had  fallen  in  with 
idlers  as,  arriving  from  a  morning's  work  in  the  school 
at  the  Widow  Poncelet's  at  noon,  I  found  that  my 
friends  gave  up  an  hour  for  dejeurier,  often  lengthened 
to  two  by  the  post-prandial  talk  to  the  accompaniment 
of  tobacco  and  cofiee.  But  I  soon  realized  that  we 
were  all  at  work  at  eight  in  the  morning,  preceding  by 
an  hour  or  more  the  usual  time  of  beginning  our  daily 


50        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

task  at  home.  I  found  also  that  these  four  morning 
hours,  if  they  were  devoted  to  working  from  Hfe,  con- 
stituted a  fair  day's  work,  so  great  is  the  nervous  force 
expended  in  studying  the  ever-changing  model.  The 
noonday  rest  gave  us  recuperated  strength  for  the  lesser 
tasks  of  the  afternoon,  and  our  occasional  outings,  not 
too  often  repeated,  were  beneficial  in  the  wise  alterna- 
tion of  work  and  play.  Therefore  I  soon  realized  that 
my  French  comrades,  all  my  seniors  and,  as  their  work 
proved,  vastly  my  superiors  artistically,  had  ordained 
their  lives  wisely.  The  history  of  their  race,  the 
thoroughness  of  their  acquirement  in  every  intellectual 
field,  has  proven  this  long  ago;  and,  had  I  known  and 
appreciated  as  much  at  the  outset,  I  should  not  have 
feared  that,  having  come  to  France  to  work,  I  was  in 
danger  of  being  led  by  example  into  too  much  play. 
This  record  is,  after  all,  one  of  memories  of  play  rather 
than  that  of  work,  which  by  its  nature  would  at  best 
be  a  chronicle  of  oft-repeated  effort,  of  baffling  decep- 
tion, and  of  infinitesimal  progress  in  the  oft-travelled 
and  arduous  highway  of  art;  and,  once  for  all,  I  may 
ask  the  reader  to  believe  that  our  student  life  knew 
no  more  than  a  just  proportion  of  "cakes  and  ale," 
and  that  in  the  measure  of  our  respective  abilities — 
apprentices  and  accepted  workmen — we  laboured  at  our 
trade. 


V 
ENTER   R.  L.   S. 

1HAVE  spoken  of  the  plaster  Hon  which  guarded 
the  doorway  leading  to  the  painters'  studios  at 
"eighty-one."  Since  his  brief  hour  of  glory  in 
some  long-forgotten  Salon  exhibition  the  noble  animal 
had  encountered  many  vicissitudes,  and  suffered  much 
indignity  at  the  hands  of  a  lawless  generation,  in  his 
long  career  as  sentinel  at  our  door.  Bereft  of  his  tail, 
with  pencilled  mustaches  and  many  scrawled  inscrip- 
tions covering  him,  it  was  left  to  my  ingenious  friend 
Bob  to  discover  that,  by  beating  this  king  of  beasts  with 
his  cane,  the  reverberations  of  his  hollow  plaster  in- 
terior made  an  excellent  substitute  for  a  gong.  This 
my  friend  put  to  use,  rather  than  climb  the  stairs  and 
knock  at  my  door,  when  he  desired  to  communicate 
with  me.  Thus  summoned  one  spring  evening  in  1875 
to  my  window,  I  looked  down  to  find  Bob  arrayed  for 
the  street,  intent  upon  a  walk  and  a  dinner  afterward 
somewhere  on  the  heights  of  Montmartre,  where  we 
seldom  ventured,  for  which  he  desired  my  company. 

Descending  to  the  courtyard  I  joined  him,  and  in 
passing  we  paused  at  the  porter's  lodge  to  inquire  for 
letters.  There  was  one  for  Bob  which  he  tore  open, 
and  after  scanning  it  passed  to  me,  saying,  "Louis  is 
coming  over."  I  read  the  brief  note;  it  was  the  first 
time  I  saw  the  handwriting  which  was  to  become  so 
familiar  to  me  and  by  whose  medium  the  world  was  to 

51 


52        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

gain  so  greatly.  I  fancy  I  can  see  it  yet,  the  blue-gray 
paper  with  the  imprint  of  the  Savile  Club  in  London, 
the  few  scrawled  words  to  the  effect  that  the  writer 
was  "seedy,"  that  the  weather  was  bad  in  London, 
and  that  he  would  arrive  the  next  morninp;  in  Paris  to 
seek  sunshine  and  rest,  and  at  the  end  the  three  initials 
R.  L.  S.  which  now  are  known  the  world  over. 

I  had  heard  much  of  this  cousin,  of  the  life  which 
Bob  and  he  had  led  in  Edinburgh,  where  their  revolt 
against  the  overstrict  conventionality  of  that  famous 
town  had  been  flavoured  with  the  zest  of  forbidden 
fruit.  I  had  heard  in  detail  of  escapades  innocent 
enough,  the  outcome  of  boyish  spirits,  in  which  both 
had  shared,  and  of  which  Bob,  philosophically  enough, 
had  borne  the  blame  of  leading  the  younger  cousin  into 
mischief.  I  had  also  heard  that  Louis  was  "going  in" 
for  literature,  but  this  had  not  interested  me  par- 
ticularly, for  in  those  days  we  were  all  "going  in"  for 
one  thing  or  the  other;  and  so  long  as  it  was  not  bank- 
ing, commerce,  politics,  or  other  unworthy  or  material 
pursuits  it  merely  seemed  the  normal  and  proper 
function  of  life.  I  had  heard  enough,  however,  aided 
by  my  hearty  aff'ection  for  my  friend  Bob,  to  be  keenly 
interested  in  the  advent  of  the  cousin,  and  I  awaited 
the  morrow  with  some  impatience,  for  it  was  at  once 
decided  that  we  would  meet  the  newcomer  on  his 
arrival  at  the  St.  Lazare  station. 

The  morrow  dawned,  one  of  those  days  which  fickle 
Paris  gives  in  the  spring  to  atone  for  her  many  climatic 
misdeeds  of  the  winter.  A  filmy  sky,  the  sunshine 
softly  veiled,  the  trees  in  the  fresh  glory  of  their  new 
attire,  and  the  life  of  the  streets  partaking  of  the  joyous- 


ENTER   R.   L.  S.  53 

ness  of  the  renouveau,  as  the  old  French  calendars 
name  their  spring.  It  was  a  good  day  to  undertake 
anything,  better  still  to  journey  across  the  beautiful 
city,  loitering  on  the  bridges  or  through  the  courtyard 
of  the  Louvre  and,  best  of  all,  to  meet  a  new  friend: 
to  add  to  one's  life  another  link  in  the  chain  of  friend- 
ship, the  most  enduring  of  human  ties. 

At  the  appointed  hour  there  descended  from  the 
Calais  train  a  youth  "unspeakably  slight,"  with  the 
face  now  familiar  to  us,  the  eyes  widely  spaced,  a  nose 
slightly  aquiline  and  delicately  modelled,  the  high 
cheek  bones  of  the  Scot;  a  face  which  in  repose  was 
not,  I  fancy,  unHke  that  of  many  of  his  former  com- 
rades in  his  native  town.  It  was  not  a  handsome  face 
until  he  spoke,  and  then  I  can  hardly  imagine  that  any 
could  deny  the  appeal  of  the  vivacious  eyes,  the  humour 
or  pathos  of  the  mobile  mouth,  with  its  lurking  sug- 
gestion of  the  great  god  Pan  at  times,  or  fail  to  realize 
that  here  was  one  so  evidently  touched  with  genius 
that  the  higher  beauty  of  the  soul  was  his. 

The  appearance  and  the  sense  of  youth  he  kept 
through  hfe,  though  this  was  perhaps  more  discernible 
in  conversation  with  him  than  from  the  published  por- 
traits. An  early  one  of  these  from  a  photograph  taken 
in  California,  though  some  years  later  than  our  first 
meeting,  preserves  much  the  same  aspect  as  that  he 
had  when  he  stepped  from  the  Calais  train  on  the 
memorable  springtime  morning  in  1875. 

One  other  detail  of  personal  appearance  I  mention, 
for  we  hear  much  in  his  latter  life  of  his  long  black 
hair.  His  hair  never  was  black,  though  it  grew  darker 
with  advancing  years  and  became  brown  of  the  deepest 


54        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

hue,  but  at  the  time  of  our  first  meeting  and  for  some 
years  later  it  was  very  Hght,  almost  of  the  sandy  tint 
we  are  wont  to  associate  with  his  countrymen.  In 
proof  of  this  I  have  a  little  colour-sketch,  painted  in 
the  autumn  of  '75,  which  shows  him  with  his  flaxen 
locks;  "all  that  we  have,"  as  his  wife  once  said  sadly, 
"that  will  make  people  believe  that  Louis'  hair  was 
ever  light." 

Of  his  dress  my  memory  is  less  vivid.  He  may  have 
worn  a  velvet  coat  or  a  knit  jersey  in  guise  of  waistcoat; 
I  have  known  him  to  do  both  at  later  periods,  uncon- 
scious that  for  the  boulevards  at  least  his  costume  was 
less  than  suitable;  but  I  aver  nothing.  Later  he 
laughingly  recalled  that  I  appeared  to  him  that  morn- 
ing in  a  frock  coat  and  a  smoking-cap;  and  if  his  recol- 
lection was  correct— if  I  had,  knowing  that  I  was  to 
meet  one  free  from  Gallic  prejudice,  temporarily  resur- 
rected my  sealskin  toque,  which  in  any  case  was  not  a 
smoking-cap — it  will  be  seen  that  my  taste  in  dress  was 
sufficiently  eclectic  to  condone  any  lapse  from  strict 
conventionality  on  his  part. 

The  formahties  of  introduction  were  soon  over.  The 
formalities  of  intercourse  never  weighed  heavily  upon 
us  in  those  days,  nor  indeed  with  Louis  in  aftertime; 
his  luggage  was  despatched  to  Lavenue's  hotel,  con- 
tiguous to  the  restaurant,  and  consequently  near  our 
studios,  and  light-handed  and  light-hearted  we  pro- 
ceeded to  retrace  our  steps  across  Paris. 

And  then  began  a  flow  of  talk  which,  as  I  look  back, 
seems  to  have  been  an  irresistible  current  flowing 
through  our  Hves,  not  only  on  this  occasion  but  when- 
ever, in  Louis'  frequent  sojourn  in  France  for  the  next 


A  youthful  portrait  of  R.  L.  Stevenson. 
Preserving  his  aspect  in  the  days  here  described. 


ENTER   R.   L.  S.  65 

few  years,  we  three  met  together.  Talk,  even  of  the 
quahty  of  which  my  two  friends  were  past  masters,  is 
a  hght  wine  that  can  be  neither  bottled  for  preserva- 
tion nor  decanted,  and  if  I  were  able  to  here  faithfully 
report  the  abundantly  flowing  discourse  of  that  day, 
doubtless  it  would  appear  of  no  great  import.  There 
would  still  be  lacking  the  atmosphere  of  spring  in 
Paris,  the  growing  interest  of  three  sympathetic  yet 
widely  differing  natures,  and,  above  all,  the  brave 
outlook  upon  life  from  the  vantage-ground  of  youth. 
For  we  were  very  young,  Louis  Stevenson  three  years 
my  elder,  and  his  cousin  three  years  his  senior,  but 
our  combined  ages  were  scarcely  more  than  the  three 
score  years  and  ten  allotted  to  man  in  which  to  acquire 
wisdom. 

Wisdom,  therefore,  we  had  not,  but  we  had  ideas  and 
were  not  chary  of  their  expression;  we  had  insatiable 
curiosity  upon  all  subjects  pertaining  to  art  and  letters, 
and  to  life  as  well,  though  in  the  restricted  sense  in 
which,  by  representation,  art  sought  the  expression  of 
life,  or  was  in  turn  influenced  by  human  conditions. 

Hence  it  is  no  great  loss  that  few  of  the  many  words 
uttered  on  this  day  of  our  first  meeting  have  lived  be- 
yond their  birth;  but  it  was  good  to  be  out  in  the 
pleasant  sunshine,  in  the  city  kind  above  all  others 
to  our  kind,  to  be  at  the  threshold  of  our  lives,  and 
even  the  certainty,  which  probably  we  all  felt  that  what 
we  were  saying  was  important,  that  possibly  the  whole 
course  of  art  and  letters  was  waiting  expectantly  for  our 
decision  before  determining  its  final  direction,  may  be 
pardoned  us. 

Again  I  must  qualify  my  words.     We  had  the  strong, 


56        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  ordinary,  convictions  of  youth,  but  we  had  also 
some  of  its  modesty.  One  who,  hke  Louis,  had  such  a 
hearty  respect  for  his  craft,  so  great  a  soHcitude  from 
the  first  to  master  his  tools  before  essaying  to  use  them, 
never,  even  when  he  had  made  himself  master  to  a 
degree  attained  by  few  Enghsh  men  of  letters,  con- 
ceived his  individual  effort  to  be  important.  This,  in 
the  quasi-solitude  in  which  he  had  lived  in  his  native 
town,  he  had  taught  himself.  As  for  the  other  two:  if 
Paris  teaches  much  that  is  worthy  to  the  practitioners 
of  art,  she  teaches  nothing  more  worthy,  nor  more 
thoroughly,  than  the  lesson  that  Art  is  long;  that  to 
reach  the  heights  that  others  have  attained,  the  route 
is  stony  and  difficult. 

Therefore,  on  that  spring  morning,  we  already  carried 
as  ballast  to  the  clipper-ship  of  our  speculative  theories 
upon  the  inexhaustible  subject  of  art  the  sobering  con- 
viction that  our  individual  effort  was  but  'prentice 
work,  and  that  before  we  could  count  as  accepted 
workmen  in  our  several  crafts  much  water  would  run 
under  the  Bridge  of  Arts  on  its  way  to  the  sea. 

Our  wandering  steps  had  brought  us  to  that  Pont 
des  Arts  which,  bridging  the  Seine  from  the  Louvre  to 
the  Institute,  is  most  appropriately  the  only  bridge  in 
Paris  over  which  you  must  walk;  no  easy  progress  in 
a  carriage  is  possible  for  him  who  follows  that  path. 
Here  we  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  sun,  looking  up  to  where 
the  boat-shaped  Cite  swims  upon  the  current,  bearing 
the  proud  towers  of  Notre  Dame.  To  the  left  we 
could  follow  the  long  facade  of  the  Louvre,  and  to  the 
right  stood  the  Institute  where,  as  we  knew,  forty 
antiquated  gentlemen  sat  in  judgment  upon  aesthetic 


ENTER   R.  L.  S.  57 

France;  a  judgment  which  we  were  prepared  to  ques- 
tion, an  institution  we  were  equally  prepared  to  over- 
throw; though  to-day  forty  gentlemen,  some  of  the 
same,  still  more  antiquated,  and  others  replacing  those 
£one  to  their  Academical  reward,  still  continue  to 
govern  aesthetic  France,  while  another  generation  of 
brash  youths  continues  to  question  its  judgments. 

We  sat  basking  in  the  sun  for  some  time,  talking  of 
many  things  after  the  manner  of  the  Walrus  and  the 
Carpenter,  until,  at  the  approach  of  noon,  we  discovered 
that  we  were  hungry,  and,  forsaking  the  pathway  of  the 
Arts,  came  down  to  earth,  hailed  an  open  carriage  and 
rode  in  state  to  Lavenue's.  This  was  Louis  Stevenson's 
first  visit  to  the  restaurant  of  our  predilection  of  which 
he  in  turn  became  a  votary;  in  his  letters  and  his  pub- 
lished works  its  name  is  often  mentioned  and  its  praises 
sounded.  The  mendacious  divinity  who  presides  over 
the  bad  quarter  hour  of  payment — Rosalie-Fanny  (or 
Fanny-RosaUe) — will  to-day  aver  that  she  remembers 
the  cousins  well,  and  certainly  for  a  number  of  years 
they  were  frequent  visitors  to  her  shrine. 

This  morning,  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  we  had  a 
better  dejeuner  than  usual,  and,  scorning  the  vin  ordi- 
naire, we  drank  to  our  better  acquaintance  in  an  excel- 
lent Beaujolais-Fleury  at  two  francs  fifty  centimes  the 
bottle,  a  vintage  of  which  Louis  wrote  to  me  four  or 
five  years  later,  after  my  return  to  the  United  States: 

"Lavenue,  hallowed  be  his  name!  Hallowed  his  old 
Fleury — of  which  you  did  not  see — as  I  did — the 
glorious  apotheosis;  advanced  on  a  Tuesday  to  three 
francs,  on  the  Thursday  to  six,  and  on  Friday  sw^ept 
off,  holus-bolus,  for  the   proprietor's  private  consump- 


58        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

tion.  Well,  we  had  the  start  of  that  proprietor.  Many 
a  good  bottle  came  our  way  and  was  worthily  made 
welcome." 

Here  after  our  lunch,  with  coffee  and  cigarettes  we 
sat,  as  we  did  so  often  on  later  occasions,  until  four  or 
five  in  the  afternoon.  Before,  during  and  after  the  meal 
we  talked,  and  here  I  was  to  encounter,  for  the  first 
time,  a  whimsical  instance  of  my  new  friend's  sense  of 
fitness  in  language.  We  were  deep  in  a  discussion 
about  some  detail  or  character  of  Balzac,  the  particular 
point  we  sought  to  elucidate  I  have  forgotten,  but  at 
the  time  Bob  and  I  were  deep  in  the  wonderful  recon- 
stitution  of  the  life  of  France  from  Napoleon  to  Louis 
Phillipe  which  the  master-romancer  had  fashioned,  and 
Louis,  we  found,  was  no  less  interested  than  ourselves. 
Suddenly,  without  a  note  of  warning,  Louis  changed 
from  the  language  we  had  spoken  up  to  that  moment, 
which,  of  course,  was  our  native  English,  to  French. 
Now  Bob  spoke  French  somewhat  hesitatingly,  choos- 
ing his  words  with  care  but  with  excellent  knowledge 
of  the  idiom;  Louis'  French  was  not  unlike  his  cousin's; 
and  mine,  picked  up  in  a  more  constant  frequentation 
of  French  companions  than  is  common  among  foreigners 
in  Paris,  was  sufficiently  fluent.  I  forbear  to  charac- 
terize our  accents;  having,  indeed,  to  this  day  reasons 
for  avoiding  that  thorny  subject  in  so  far  as  I  am 
personally  concerned. 

Up  to  the  time  of  this  change  of  language  not  one 
word  of  French  had  been  spoken,  and  for  all  that 
Louis  knew  I  might  have  been  helpless  in  that  polite 
tongue,  but  as  we  continued  I  soon  realized  that  for 
our  particular  discussion  of  characters,  events  and  of 


ENTER   R.   L.  S.  59 

style,  which  were  all  French  in  essence,  my  new  friend 
was  not  ill-inspired,  and  that  we  three  English-speaking 
youths  could  better  analyze  the  subject  before  us  in 
French  than  in  our  native  tongue.  Speaking  of  this 
long  after,  I  found  that  Louis  had  quite  forgotten  the 
incident,  and  I  think  it  probable  that  at  the  time  he 
was  hardly  conscious  of  it,  his  sense  of  the  proper  word 
and  the  fit  phrase  leading  him  into  this  excursion  into 
a  foreign  language. 

From  Lavenue's  we  sought  the  garden  of  the  Luxem- 
bourg, where  we  sat  long  into  the  twilight,  taking  our 
dinner  somewhere  near  and  adjourning  to  a  cafe  after- 
ward. Here  with  our  coffee  a  cordial,  chartreuse  or 
cura^oa  was  brought  in  a  small  decanter,  accompanied 
by  the  usual  small  liqueur  glasses;  and  here  the  impish 
extravagance  of  my  new  friend,  which  was  at  the 
bottom  of  so  many  of  the  youthful  escapades  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  which,  conducted  with  an  enthusiasm 
worthy  of  more  serious  objects,  had  more  than  once 
caused  dire  prognostications  of  his  future  to  be  drawn, 
became  manifest. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  suddenly  while  sipping  his 
cordial,  "why  this  sort  of  thing  is  always  served  in 
such  small  glasses,"  and  calling  for  an  ordinary  water 
glass,  he  half  filled  it  with  the  cordial  and  drank  it.  I 
exclaimed  in  horror  that  it  would  make  him  ill,  but, 
enjoying  my  surprise,  he  declared  that  it  did  not  matter, 
because  "  I  have  come  to  Paris  to  rest  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  lie  abed  all  day."  This  was  the  first  reference  to 
his  feeling  "seedy,"  which  his  letter  had  mentioned, 
and,  indeed,  throughout  his  life,  except  when  it  was 
forced  upon  him  by  actual  physical  prostration,  beyond 


60        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  precautions  which  he  later  learned  to  observe,  there 
was  no  allusion  to,  no  apparent  realization  of,  his  deli- 
cate condition.  At  this  time,  and  during  the  three  years 
that  followed,  I  was  never  conscious  that  he  was  more 
than  a  little  less  robust  than  most  of  us  were. 

Knowing  him  as  intimately  as  I  did,  it  was  not  until 
a  much  later  time  that  I  realized  that  his  early  sojourns 
in  the  South  of  France  were  in  the  quest  of  health.  At 
Barbizon  he  was  among  the  foremost  in  our  long  walks 
over  the  plains  or  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  and  in 
the  summers  of  1876-77  at  Grez,  where  he  led  a  semi- 
amphibious  life,  on  and  in  the  river  Loing,  he  never 
seemed  ill,  and  as  youth  is  not  solicitous  on  questions 
of  health,  it  never  occurred  to  us  that  his  slender  frame 
encased  a  less  robust  constitution  than  that  of  others. 
"My  illness  is  an  incident  outside  of  my  life"  was  his 
watchword  later,  and  I  need  not  enlarge  on  his  brave 
attitude  in  that  respect. 

At  the  close  of  this  eventful  day  we  sauntered  lei- 
surely up  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  entering,  for  a  few 
moments,  the  Bal  BuUier,  which  we  surveyed  philosoph- 
ically, as  prudent  youths  taking  their  pleasure  other- 
wise, and  having  small  interest  in  the  riotous  scenes 
enacted  there.  Thence,  descending  the  Boulevard 
Mont  Parnasse,  we  escorted  Louis  to  the  door  of  his 
hostelry,  where  we  left  him,  appointing  a  meeting  for 
the  following  evening,  in  order  that  he  might  carry  out 
his  plan  of  resting  through  the  day  undisturbed. 

At  the  appointed  time  he  reappeared,  feeling,  he 
assured  us,  much  refreshed,  and  the  morning  after  the 
two  cousins  departed  for  Barbizon.  I  was  urged  to 
accompany  them,  but  I  was  busy  upon  a  picture  which 


ENTER   R.  L.  S.  61 

was  to  be  my  first  offering  to  the  Salon.  Could  I  have 
foreseen  the  cruelty  of  the  jury  of  admission  some  days 
later  I  should  have  foregone  this  exhibition  of  Spartan 
virtue  and,  accompanying  my  friends,  would  now  be 
able  to  describe  the  first  impression  which  the  smiling 
plain  and  shady  woods  made  on  Stevenson;  who  for 
several  years  was  to  find  in  Fontainebleau  and  the 
adjoining  villages  of  Barbizon  and  Grez  fields  for  work 
and  play,  influential  at  the  time,  and  to  which,  in 
pleasant  memory,  he  often  reverted,  until  the  end  came 
in  the  far  South  Seas. 


VI 
COMRADES   AND   CAMARADES 

THE  summer  was  yet  young  when  Louis  rejoined 
his  cousin  in  Paris.  This  time  he  sHpped  so 
naturally  into  our  easy  intimacy  that  he  soon 
became  known  to  all  the  little  circle  in  which  we  moved. 
The  exodus  from  town  was  approaching.  The  long- 
suffering  colour  men  were  supplying  their  different 
clients  with  canvases  and  colours  for  the  summer  work; 
and  as  in  only  a  few  instances  current  coin  of  the  re- 
public was  exacted  in  these  transactions,  and  as  the 
hotel  keepers  of  Barbizon,  Cernay,  or  Pont  Aven  were 
known  to  be  equally  liberal  in  their  disposition  to 
extend  credit,  art  for  art's  sake  seemed  less  of  an 
illusory  dream  than  any  one  of  these  young  painters 
were  likely  to  find  it  in  their  after  careers. 

This  summer  was  to  see  assembled  at  Barbizon  most 
of  our  intimates  in  Paris,  some  of  whom,  pupils  of  the 
atelier  Duran,  had  elected  a  preference  for  the  society 
of  Bob,  even  as  I  had,  rather  than  for  what  I  presume 
considered  itself  the  more  orderly  element  among  the 
English-speaking  pupils  of  the  master.  First  and  fore- 
most among  these  was  Henry  Enfield,  of  whom  I  have 
already  spoken.  His  studio  was  on  the  same  floor  as 
that  of  Bob  at  eighty-one,  and  through  the  winter  these 
studios  had  been  the  common  meeting-place  in  the 
evenings.  During  a  portion  of  the  winter,  in  fact,  Bob 
had  been  inflicted  with  what  he,  in  common  with  us 
all,  had  considered  the  infantile  malady  known  as  the 

62 


"Bo!),"  with  tlie  mumps 
From  a  sketch  hv  R.  A.  M.  Stevenson 


COMRADES  AND  CAMARADES  63 

mumps.  Confined  to  the  studio,  but  not  suffering 
particularly,  this  illness  had  served  as  an  excuse  for 
dispensing  a  rough  hospitality  to  the  intimates,  in 
which  the  little  kitchen  attached  to  his  studio  had  come 
into  play.  Here  on  merry  evenings  numbers  of  the 
men  congregated,  and  I  recall  a  beefsteak  supper  v^^here 
our  invitation  bore  the  admonition  to  each  guest  to 
bring  his  beefsteak  with  him.  Fire  and  the  adjuncts 
of  a  comfortable  meal  were  provided  by  the  hosts,  and 
a  surprising  variety  of  steaks  were  brought,  and  various 
conflicting  theories  as  to  the  best  manner  of  preparing 
that  delicacy  were  put  into  practice.  Soon  after 
Christmas  Enfield  had  returned  from  a  holiday  visit  to 
England  and  brought  with  him  a  new  accession  to  our 
ranks.  Arthur  Heseltine,  the  newcomer,  was  fresh 
from  the  South  Kensington  School,  which  we,  as  true 
partisans  of  a  French  training,  looked  upon  with  small 
favour.  I  alone,  perhaps,  had  a  sneaking  fondness  for 
the  preoccupation  with  composition  as  one  of  the  chief 
technical  qualities  of  art  which  characterized  the  in- 
struction in  the  Slade  school,  at  least  at  that  time,  and 
my  voice  was  occasionally  raised  in  protest  against  the 
running  fire  of  criticism  to  which  the  precepts  that  our 
new  friend  respected  were  subjected.  Heseltine  took 
these  strictures  in  the  best-natured  spirit,  and  as  he  was 
two  or  three  years  younger  than  any  of  the  band,  and 
seemed  even  more  juvenile  as  this  was  his  first  absence 
from  home,  he  fell  submissively  under  the  rule  of  his 
elders.  "As  every  self-respecting  British  householder 
should  have  a  barrel  of  Bass'  ale  in  his  cellar,"  accord- 
ing to  Bob's  contention,  a  small  barrel  had  been  pro- 
cured  and,  lacking  the  cellar,   it  proudly  occupied   a 


64        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

corner  of  the  kitchen.  One  of  the  duties  assigned  to 
Heseltine  was  to  draw  this  ale  whenever  called  upon 
to  do  it.  "The  apprentice,"  as  he  had  been  at  first 
dubbed,  soon  gave  way  to  another  title,  and  the  scrupu- 
lously brought  up  youth  was  thereafter  known  as  the 
"pot-boy."  Anything  more  at  variance  with  the  ap- 
pearance, manners,  and  general  disposition  of  our 
friend  would  be  hard  to  imagine,  and  his  lack  of  fitness 
for  the  office  was  soon  demonstrated  when  through 
absent-mindedness  he  left  the  faucet  open  after  drawing 
a  pot  of  ale.  The  precious  fluid  flooded  the  kitchen, 
leaked  through  the  ceiling  of  the  room  below,  which 
was  the  bedroom  of  the  irate  concierge,  brought  up  that 
worthy  in  a  spasm  of  too  articulate  rage  and  cast  a 
gloom  not  only  upon  the  would-be  "  British  house- 
holders" but  upon  all  their  associates.  Dire  prophecies 
as  to  the  future  end  of  our  friend  as  the  penalty  of  this 
catastrophe  have  not  been  realized,  for  since  these  days 
he  has  remained  faithful  to  the  pleasant  country  of 
France,  and  in  his  handsome  house  at  Marlotte,  on  the 
border  of  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  a  few  years  ago 
it  was  given  me  to  sit  at  Heseltine's  table  and  in  reminis- 
cental  mood  recall  these  days  of  our  youth. 

His  sponsor  in  our  circle,  Enfield,  had  a  pretty 
talent  for  the  violin  and  the  "Men  of  Harlech"  and  a 
number  of  old  English  airs,  the  refrain  of  one  of  which 
comes  back  to  me: 

"  Come  lassies  and  lads,  get  leave  of  your  dads 
And  come  to  the" 

and  here  my  memory  deserts  me;  but  all  these  airs  were 
played    and    sung    with    gusto.     Another    neighbour, 


COMRADES   AND  CAMARADES  65 

Wilbur  Woodward,  would  bring  his  banjo  from  his 
adjoining  studio,  and  as  he  was  from  Cincinnati, 
memories  of  the  songs  of  the  Ohio  would  resound  from 
the  walls  of  this  Paris  studio. 

Woodward  was  one  of  the  types  of  the  quarter. 
When  not  more  than  a  child  he  had  accompanied  his 
father,  an  officer  in  the  volunteer  army  in  the  Civil  War, 
had  been  present  and  beat  his  drum  in  actual  battles. 
He  had  much  of  the  romantic  bravado  with  which  the 
Rough  Rider  has  in  these  later  times  familiarized  us,  but 
at  the  epoch  of  which  I  speak  this  type,  transplanted  to 
decorous  France,  was  sufficiently  singular.  Coiffed 
by  a  sombrero,  his  hair  about  his  shoulders,  and  long 
cavalry  boots  reaching  nearly  to  his  hips  he  must  have 
appeared  a  strange  figure  to  the  French  inhabitants  of 
the  quarter,  but  he  pursued  his  way  unmolested  in  the 
large  hberty  allowed  to  students  by  that  common-sensi- 
ble nation.  Beyond  these  peculiarities,  Woodward  was  a 
well-read,  quiet  fellow  with  more  than  ordinary  talent. 
He  elected  to  remain  in  Paris,  and  gained  sufficient 
recognition  there  to  be  able  to  support  himself  by 
making  drawings  for  the  French  illustrated  papers. 
He  returned  to  this  country  in  the  employ  of  one  of 
these  on  the  occasion  of  the  Yorktown  Centennial  Cele- 
bration in  1883,  and  while  here  was  taken  suddenly 
ill  and  died.  As  these  memories  rise  to  me  one  after 
the  other,  his  figure  comes  up  strongly  against  the 
background  of  time;  his  pale,  handsome  face  framed 
in  his  long  black  hair,  his  long,  lithe  figure,  the 
busy  fingers  strumming  the  banjo,  his  feet  keeping 
time  as,  with  the  accent  of  the  negro  roustabout,  he 
sang: 


6G        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

"Oh!  old  Aunt  Sally,  she  doan'  do  well, 
She  doan'  do  as  she  us'ter; 
She  use  to  stan'  in  dat  back  door 
An'  watch  dat  bobtail  rooster. 

Oh  la!  gals,  yer  shan't  go  wander, 
Oh  la!  gals!" 

Interminable  verses,  some  remembered  from  nights  on 
the  Ohio,  others  improvised,  after  the  manner  of  the 
original  versifiers  who  thus  accompanied  their  work, 
ensued;  while  the  old  repertoire  of  "Gentle  Nellie 
Bly,"  "  'Way  Down  Upon  the  Suwanee  River,"  and 
the  "Old  Kentucky  Home"  were  all  at  Woodward's 
finger  ends. 

By  this  time  also  Theodore  Robinson  had  come  to 
Paris,  and  again  one  who  for  many  years  was  the  best 
of  friends  appears  to  me  as  he  appeared  then.  Frail, 
with  a  husky,  asthmatic  voice  and  a  laugh  that  shook 
his  meagre  sides  and  yet  hardly  made  itself  heard, 
timid  and  reticent,  saying  little,  yet  blessed  with  as 
keen  a  sense  of  humour  as  any  one  I  have  ever  known, 
Robinson  was  received  at  once  into  our  little  circle  with 
the  highest  favour. 

At  first  he  seemed  almost  negative,  so  quietly  he  took 
his  place  among  us,  but  once  the  shell  of  diffidence  was 
pierced  few  of  the  men  had  thought  as  much  or  as  in- 
dependently, and  the  knowledge  which  he  possessed  he 
had  made  so  thoroughly  his  own  by  some  innate  faculty 
that  a  truism  uttered  by  him  had  a  flavour  of  origi- 
nality. 

His  work  partook  of  the  same  qualities  of  originality 
from  the  first,  though  it  was  to  be  many  years  before 
it  shed  a  certain  dryness  and  under  the  influence  of  the 


Frank  O'Meara 

From  an  early  work  by  John  S.  Sargent,  in  the  possession 
of  Mrs.  Isobel  Strong 


COMRADES   AND  CAMARADES  G7 

Impressionistic  school  blossomed  into  colour  and 
achieved  popularity  of  the  kind  which  the  painter  occa- 
sionally vouchsafes  to  his  fellow.  Popularity  with  the 
collector  and  the  general  public  he  never  attanied 
during  his  lifetime,  though  I  am  glad  to  think  now  how 
much  it  appealed  to  me  from  the  first,  and  how  when 
his  day  of  recognition  arrived,  though  day  had  closed 
for  him,  it  brought  to  me  no  element  of  surprise. 
Robinson,  though  born  in  Vermont,  had  been  taken  as 
a  child  to  Wisconsin,  which  seemed  to  many  of  us 
quite  remotely  Western,  and  we  shared  with  our  foreign 
friends  the  mingled  sense  of  strangeness  and  appro- 
priateness to  the  life  which  we  fancied  typical  of  our 
Western  States  when,  on  turning  over  the  leaves  of  one 
of  Robinson's  sketch-books,  we  came  upon  a  hasty 
scrawl,  and,  half  guessing  at  its  purport,  asked  for  its 
meaning.  "Oh,  that  was  the  hanging  of  a  horse-thief 
that  I  saw  out  in  Colorado,"  was  Robinson's  non- 
chalant rejoinder. 

To  this  quiet,  self-contained  and  essentially  American 
product  there  may  be  opposed  a  pure  type  of  the  Celt 
in  Frank  O'Meara.  To  the  capricious  moodiness  of 
his  race,  the  alternate  sunshine  and  rain  of  his  emerald 
isle,  O'Meara  joined  an  exquisitely  sensitive  tempera- 
ment as  an  artist.  Memories  of  dim  woods  peopled  by 
slender  damsels,  half-fairy  and  half-human,  rise  up  as  I 
think  of  his  work.  None  of  it  ever  approached  definite 
maturity  of  execution,  and  in  the  school  he  was,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  quite  given  over  to  a  painstaking  realism; 
while  I  can  imagine  that  his  high-strung  assumption  of 
materialism  would  have  bitterly  resented  the  qualifica- 
tion of  his  efforts  as  poetical.     Nevertheless,  once  re- 


68        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

leased  from  the  thraldom  of  school-work,  his  fancy 
ran  riot,  and  much  which  we  to-day,  in  the  work  of  W. 
B.  Yeats  and  others,  recognize  as  a  definite  attempt  to 
express  the  national  characteristics  of  the  Irish  race  in 
poetry  and  painting,  was  foreshadowed  in  the  tentative 
efforts  of  O'Meara. 

Superficially  he  realized  fairly  well  one  of  the  heroes 
of  Charles  Lever's  novels,  gay,  witty,  and  insouciant, 
with  a  capacity  for  a  sudden  white  anger,  when  it 
behooved  his  best  friends  to  treat  him  with  caution 
until  a  change  of  mood  brought  back  the  sunshine, 
accompanied  with  profuse  self-condemnation,  warm 
apologies,  and  humorous  excuses  for  his  "wild  Irish" 
temper.  The  portrait  here  reproduced,  an  early  work 
of  Sargent,  filled  with  the  promise  which  he  has  since 
so  amply  fulfilled,  gives  O'Meara  as  we  knew  him,  and 
augured  hopefully  of  the  rare  gifts  as  a  painter  with 
which  we  judged  him  endowed.  But  Httle  was  to  come 
of  it,  for,  his  student  days  finished,  he  withdrew  to  Grez, 
and  there  living  much  by  himself,  under  conditions 
that  were  physically  and  mentally  unhealthy,  he  died 
before  his  promise  was  fulfilled. 

In  my  intimacy  with  Bob,  which  was  so  promptly 
shared  by  Louis,  I  served  as  a  means  of  procuring  for 
them  occasional  glimpses  of  the  life  of  the  French 
student.  Nothing  could  afford  a  stronger  contrast  to 
our  essentially  Anglo-Saxon  group  than  the  two  men 
who  were  chief  among  my  Gallic  companions,  unless 
it  was  the  contrast  between  these  men  themselves. 

Adrien  Gaudez  was  of  the  purest  French-Burgundian 
type,  something  hke  the  bouquet  of  the  rich  generous 
wine  of  the  country  from  which  he  came  emanated  from 


The  Nymph  Echo 

From  ihf  statue  bv  Adricn  Gaudez 


COMRADES  AND  CAMARADES  69 

his  presence.  He  was  an  artist  to  his  finger-tips;  no 
expression  of  art  was  to  him  neghgible  and  few  were 
unfamiliar.  Failing  in  the  earher  years  of  his  practice 
to  win  the  Prix  de  Rome,  the  stepping-stone  lacking 
which  the  sculptor  in  France  can  seldom  hope  to  share 
in  any  large  measure  in  the  official  commissions  by 
which  the  government  virtually  keeps  alive  the  art  of 
sculpture,  or  to  penetrate  later  into  the  inner  sanctuary 
of  the  Institute,  Gaudez  found  success  with  the  larger 
public.  In  the  Salon  he  early  won  his  medals,  and  by 
the  reproduction  of  his  larger  works  on  a  reduced 
scale  in  bronze  he  achieved  a  fair  degree  of  popular 
success.  The  antithesis  of  all  that  is  stilted  and  pon- 
derous, the  work  of  Gaudez  runs  the  gamut,  from  the 
graceful  eighteenth-century  sculpture  of  Clodion  to 
the  closer  characterization  of  the  school  of  Rude.  The 
nymphe  Echo,  reproduced  here  from  the  marble  which 
formed  part  of  the  collection  of  Alexandre  Dumas  fils, 
has  much  of  the  charm  of  the  eighteenth  century,  while 
the  tense  virility  of  the  "Chiseler,"  a  figure  erected 
before  the  Mairie  of  the  3d  arrondissement, — a  quarter 
of  Paris  where  bronze  founderies  and  metal  workers 
abound, — is  marked  by  the  keen  observation  and  strong 
individuality  of  the  later  French  school.  The  Hst  of 
his  works  would  be  long,  including  the  superb  nude 
"Harvester"  in  the  Pare  Monceau  or  the  portrait 
statue  of  Parmentier  in  the  square  at  Neuilly,  and  he 
thus  may  be  said  to  have  left  his  mark  on  Paris  and  the 
sculpture  of  his  time  without  achieving,  however,  the 
higher  official  honours  which  France  accords  to  its 
favoured  sculptors.  Gustave  Geoffroy,  the  well-known 
art  critic,  has  best  explained  the  position  of  Gaudez  in 


70        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


a  Salon  criticism.  "He  [Gaudez]  is  reproached  with 
having  too  much  esprit  in  his  work;  surely  a  grateful 
fault  when  so  many  sculptors  have  none."  But  all  this 
deals  with  a  Gaudez  of  later  life,  through  which  and  to 
the  end  our  friendship  survived,  and  not  to  my  familiar 
companion  of  the  days  of  which  I  write,  whence  through 
the  mists  of  memory  he  emerges  clad  in  paletot  noisette, 
a  coat  of  faded  brown-green,  with  his  heavy  cane  and 
inseparable  pipe.  A  grave  and  even  tender  solicitude 
for  the  young  American  confided  to  his  care  made  him 
in  those  days  more  than  a  comrade  and  to  some  degree 
my  mentor.  For  that  matter,  though  scarcely  the 
senior  of  his  immediate  following,  he  was  by  that  Httle 
company  its  unchallenged  leader,  and  by  no  assump- 
tion of  superiority  on  his  part;  none  of  us,  though  we 
used  freely  the  tutoiement,  and  addressed  each  other 
as  "thee"  and  "thou,"  according  to  custom,  used  these 
familiar  terms  with  him. 

One  of  his  most  inspiring  qualities  was  a  courageous 
optimism  and,  though  then  and  later  we  shared  rather 
more  than  the  usual  hardships  that  fall  to  the  im- 
pecunious follower  of  the  arts,  I  never  remember  him 
being  cast  down  or  despairing.  To  any  one  who 
knows  intimately  the  life  of  a  sculptor  in  Paris,  there 
are  few  careers  where  the  rewards  are  less  and  where 
the  intervals  between  opportunities  for  employment  or 
production  are  greater.  Of  course,  this  was  more 
marked  in  these  early  days,  for  in  his  later  time  my 
friend  became,  for  a  French  sculptor,  almost  con- 
spicuously prosperous;  but,  in  direst  poverty  or  tem- 
porary affluence,  Gaudez  worked  with  a  stout  heart  and 
an  unfailing  confidence  that  gave  courage  not  only  to 


L'ami   Gaudez,   1875 
From  a  sketch  in  oil  bv  W.  H.  Low 


COMRADES  AND  CAMARADES  71 

himself,  but  to  his  intimates;  all  of  whom  to  a  large 
degree  shared  a  common  purse,  with  no  perceptible 
effect  on  the  fluctuation  of  the  money  market. 

The  second  of  these  friends  was  a  type  more  common 
in  fiction  than  often  met  with  in  life. 

Arthur  Codes,  such  was  the  classic  surname  of  one 
who  realized  more  truly  the  existence,  the  character,  and 
aims,  or  the  lack  of  aim,  of  the  traditional  Bohemian 
than  any  one  of  the  many  students  with  whom  I  was 
thrown.  Many  of  these  unwittingly  Hved  la  vie  de 
Boheme;  some  few,  perhaps,  consciously,  if  unwillingly, 
did  so;  and  fewer  still  tried  with  a  brave  show  to  flaunt 
their  indifi^erence  to  conventionality  before  the  world — 
in  a  world  that  was  placidly  indifi^erent  to  their  exist- 
ence. In  all  these  cases,  however,  it  could  be  felt  that 
the  morrow  would  possibly  change  one  and  all,  that 
condition  and  not  nature  was  the  reason  for  the  exist- 
ence of  all  these  Rodolphes  and  Schaunards.  But  as 
the  gem  is  to  the  imitation,  so  was  my  friend  Codes  to 
the  pseudo-Bohemian.  Born  on  a  canal  in  the  north 
of  France,  the  child  of  a  poor  boatman,  how  and  why 
he  had  drifted  to  Paris  when  a  boy  I  know  not,  nor 
where  he  had  acquired  his  curious  substitute  for  an 
education.  On  some  subjects  of  the  most  usual  char- 
acter he  was  densely  ignorant,  upon  others,  ofttimes 
of  an  unusual  cast,  he  was  extremely  well  informed. 
A  voracious  reader,  rarely  without  a  book  in  his  pocket, 
and  creating  for  himself  abundant  leisure,  in  fine 
weather  he  would  seek  the  Luxembourg  gardens. 
There,  first  carefully  perusing  the  daily  paper,  as  he 
gravely  held  it  to  be  the  duty  of  every  one  to  keep  him- 
self informed  of  the  state  of  politics  and  the  general 


72        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

progress  of  the  world,  he  would  with  a  cherished  volume 
pass  the  long  afternoons  in  reading.  For  a  time  he 
shared  the  studio  with  Gaudez,  who  for  many  years 
had  been  in  more  ways  than  one  his  friend.  It  was  due 
to  his  influence  that  Codes  had  consented  to  study  for 
a  time  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux-Arts,  where  he  had  dis- 
played considerable  talent,  and  on  leaving  the  school 
Gaudez  had  found  work  for  him  as  an  assistant  to  one 
of  the  older  sculptors  of  the  time,  Salmson,  who  had 
befriended  him  in  many  ways,  and  whose  studio,  when 
all  else  failed,  was  still  open  to  him  as  a  refuge.  Work 
for  other  men,  intermittently  enough,  gave  him  the 
little  he  needed  to  live,  and  he  busied  himself  w^th 
projecting  masterpieces  of  his  own  at  intervals.  I 
would  not  venture  to  count  the  number  of  such  works 
that  I  have  seen  begun.  None  were  ever  finished. 
The  mood  changed,  an  inspiring  model  was  not  ob- 
tainable, or  a  newer  subject  presented  itself  to  the 
detriment  of  the  half-finished  figure;  though  some  of 
these  beginnings  were  of  more  than  usual  promise,  for 
we  all  accorded  the  possession  of  talent  to  the  dreamer. 
These  continual  failures  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  my 
volatile  friend. 

^'N'tnsultez  pas  line  femme  qui  tombe,''  I  remember 
him  quoting  wittily  as  he  destroyed  one  of  these  figures; 
for  Victor  Hugo's  verse  was  frequently  on  his  lips, 
while  he  could  quote  whole  pages  of  Alfred  de  Musset. 
At  one  time  he  was  in  temporary  possession  of  a  small 
shop,  which,  by  the  easy  process  of  screening  the  lower 
part  of  the  shop-window,  he  had  converted  into  a 
studio,  obtaining  possession  at  a  nominal  rent  by  a 
clause   inserted   in   a   formal   lease   that   explained   in 


COMRADES   AND   CAMARADES  73 

legal  phraseology  the  reduction  of  price,  "since  M. 
Codes  had  no  intention  of  transacting;  business  on  the 
premises."  His  humorous  appreciation  of  the  un- 
witting truth  of  this  phrase,  rather  than  the  convenience 
of  the  room  as  a  studio,  was,  I  am  certain,  his  reason 
for  abiding  there.  It  was  in  the  populous  quarter  in- 
habited by  mechanics  and  filled  with  factories,  where 
this  shop-studio  was  situated,  that  he  once  invited  me 
to  dinner,  and  the  purchase  of  the  various  articles  for 
this  modest  repast  at  divers  small  shops  brought  into 
play  his  amazing  vocabulary  of  Parisian  slang  and 
quaint  observations,  that  left  each  shopkeeper  con- 
vulsed with  laughter  as  we  bore  away  the  concomitants 
of  our  feast. 

As  singular  in  appearance  as  in  manner,  he  was  in 
any  company  a  marked  man.  Of  skeleton  thinness  of 
figure,  his  long  legs  were  encased  in  the  tightest  of 
trousers,  and  his  beardless  mask  was  invariably  sur- 
mounted by  an  opera-hat,  which,  on  entering  a  room, 
he  always  flattened  and  held  by  the  rim,  daintily,  like 
a  dish;  occasionally  waving  it,  as  much  gesticulation 
punctuated  his  talk.  When  Gaudez  and  he  took  their 
w^alks  abroad,  the  thick-set,  replete  figure  of  the  former 
and  the  extreme  tenuity  of  Codes,  with  a  long  coat 
flapping  about  his  meagre  shanks,  enforced  an  extreme 
contrast,  which  was  further  accentuated  in  their  char- 
acters, for  in  Gaudez  a  substratum  of  strong  common- 
sense  and  acceptation  of  the  hard  terms  on  which  an 
unsympathetic  w^orld  alone  tolerates  the  man  preoccu- 
pied with  problems  of  art,  was  present  even  in  these 
insouciant  years,  while  Codes  then  and  thereafter 
steadfastly  refused  to  strike  his  flag  to  the  bourgeois. 


74        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

But  while  the  society  of  Codes  was  a  constant  delight 
in  the  city,  where  at  each  turn  some  unexpected  sally 
of  wit  or  semi-profound  philosophy  bubbled  from  his 
lips,  it  was  in  the  country,  in  the  presence  of  nature, 
that  he  was  at  his  best.  With  some  predisposition  to 
accept  as  truth  all  "doubtful  tales  from  faery-land," 
it  was  not  difficult  for  me,  in  my  long  rambles  with 
Codes  in  the  woods  of  Clamart,  Chaville,  or,  later,  at 
Fontainebleau,  to  believe  that  I  had  unearthed  a  faun. 
His  running  comment  on  the  most  trivial  of  the  mul- 
titudinous events  which  transpire  to  the  observing  eye 
on  a  country  ramble  were  inimitable.  Throughout  the 
whimsical  comments  ran  a  vein  of  poetry,  ringing  true, 
inasmuch  as  it  was  quite  unconscious;  and,  though 
from  his  untrammeled,  undirected  existence  from 
childhood  in  Paris  my  friend  had  not  escaped  scathless, 
here  in  the  woods  he  was  as  innocent  as  a  child.  I 
have  seen  him  tete-a-tete  with  a  toad,  or  scaling  a  sunny 
rock,  scattering  green,  glittering  lizards  in  all  direc- 
tions in  their  vain  pursuit,  or  baring  a  long,  lean 
arm  to  plunge  into  the  burrow  of  some  animal  in 
the  hope  of  finding  its  denizen  at  home.  All  this  fear- 
lessly, while,  the  mood  changing,  after  nightfall  or 
in  the  long  twilight  of  the  woods,  he  has  walked 
clinging  to  my  arm  in  quite  visible  alarm — the  sim- 
ple terror  of  the  city  child  before  the  solemnity  of 
nature. 

Nor  must  I  fail  to  recall  his  delight  in  the  mimic  life 
of  the  stage.  In  those  days  we  had  of  the  best;  we 
saw  Delaunay,  brave  "in  green  ribbons,"  playing 
Alceste;  despite  the  weight  of  years  carrying  convic- 
tion through  his  finished  art;   we  saw  the  young  Sarah 


Codes,  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens 
From  a  pencil  sketch  by  W.  H.  Low 


COMRADES   AND  CAMARADES  75 

Bernhardt;  heard  the  "voice  of  gold"  before  long 
declamation  had  marred  its  lustre,  and  saw  the  pale 
star  of  her  genius  rise  in  the  glorious  constellation  of 
the  Fran^ais  of  that  day.  We  were  modest  frequenters 
of  the  parterre,  but  with  true  nobility,  urged  thereto  by 
Codes,  we  sternly  refused  the  not  uncommon  practice 
of  the  students,  who  gain  entrance  for  a  trivial  sum  by 
lending  their  applause  to  the  claque.  This  ques- 
tionable institution  exists  in  all  French  theatres,  and 
its  leader  by  preconcerted  signal  leads  the  applause 
at  designated  moments.  The  reduced  fee  for  entrance 
was  a  strong  temptation  to  our  modest  purses,  but 
Codes  argued  that  in  selling  our  approval  or  barter- 
ing our  right  of  criticism  we  destroyed  the  value  of 
the  one  or  the  other;  so  we  bravely  paid  the  full  price 
of  admission,  which  in  the  parterre  is  fortunately 
small,  and  many  a  delightful  evening  we  spent,  occa- 
sionally together,  but  more  often  with  others  of  the 
"bande." 

Before  resuming  the  erratic  course  of  my  narrative, 
I  must  tell  the  sad  fifth  and  last  act  of  my  whimsical 
friend's  tragicomedy  of  life.  This  was  enacted  in  the 
years  that  lapsed  between  my  student  days,  my  return 
home,  and  a  second  sojourn  in  France  in  1886.  On 
occasions,  in  mood  of  sentiment.  Codes  had  spoken  of 
a  young  girl  whom  he  had  known  since  childhood,  who 
lived  with  one  of  the  few  relatives  that  he  possessed, 
and  who,  he  averred,  was  to  crown  his  life  with  happi- 
ness in  that  future  when  some  great  work  achieved  by 
him  had  brought  fame  and  fortune.  Fame  and  fortune 
— sorry  jades — lingered,  when,  a  short  time  after  my 
first  departure  from  Paris,  the  young  people  did  as  so 


76        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

many  young  people  do,  and  concluded  to  await  the 
arrival  of  the  tardy  sisters  in  company.  The  marriage 
of  Codes  spurred  him,  as  it  has  done  many  an  honest 
man,  to  greater  effort,  and  under  this  influence  he  com- 
pleted a  group  of  sculpture  which  in  some  measure 
justified  the  expectations  that  his  faithful  friends  had  so 
long  maintained.  Already,  however,  the  privations 
which  his  course  in  life  had  brought  were  beginning  to 
tell  upon  him,  and  the  Salon  medal  which  promptly 
rewarded  his  first  ambitious  effort,  was  of  the  third 
class  only,  when  his  hope  had  been  for  one  of  higher 
grade. 

It  is  the  curse  of  official  recompense  to  art  in  France 
that  these  rewards  so  often  fail  in  their  object.  Their 
chief  value  is  in  provoking  means  for  further  production 
through  government  orders,  and,  of  course,  the  lowest 
grade  of  medal  comes  last  when  the  distribution  of 
official  work  takes  place. 

After  so  much  laughter,  the  progressive  illness  and 
the  disappointment  at  the  result  of  his  effort  changed 
the  character  of  my  friend,  and,  for  the  few  years  re- 
maining, he  avoided  and  distrusted  his  former  com- 
rades, and  did  little  or  nothing  to  add  to  his  first  par- 
tial success.  When  the  end  came,  an  end  lightened  by 
the  knowledge  that  his  wife,  fortunately,  was  possessed 
of  skill  in  a  trade  where,  left  alone,  she  would  be  abun- 
dantly able  to  support  herself,  there  was  a  brief, 
transitory  revival  of  the  spirit  of  former  days.  On  the 
last  morning— as  it  was  tearfully  told  me — he  called  his 
wife  to  his  side  and  with  fast-failing  strength  recalled 
many  of  their  pleasant  excursions  and  long  rambles 
through  the  country.     At  last  he  asked  to  be  Hfted  in 


COMRADES  AND   CAMARADES  77 

his  bed,  and  as  she  stooped  to  help  him,  he  burst  into  a 
verse  of  Murgers'  song: 

Tu  remettras  la  robe  blanche, 

Dont  tu  te  parais  autrefois, 
Et  comme  autrefois — le  Dimanche — 

Nous  irons  courir  dans  les  bois, 

and  as  he  sang — as  he  had  lived— he  died,  "babbHng 
of  green  fields";  not  perhaps  a  heroic  figure,  but  one 
consistent  and  upheld  through  life  by  the  courage  of 
his  convictions. 


VII 
JEAN   FRANCOIS   MILLET 

THE  irregularity  with  which  these  random  recol- 
lections come  back  to  me  was  perhaps  suffi- 
ciently indicated  by  the  inclusion  in  the  last 
chapter  of  my  long  description  of  two  of  my  French 
friends  who  were  not  particularly  identified  with  our 
life  in  Barbizon,  where  they  both,  however,  made  short 
apparitions.  Now,  however,  before  going  on  with  the 
memories  of  the  summer  of  1875,  I  must  go  backward 
to  the  two  previous  summers,  for  during  my  first 
sojourn  there  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Jean  Francois 
Millet,  and  even  so  slight  a  contribution  as  mine  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  world  of  so  great  a  man  is  not  without 
importance. 

Before  leaving  New  York  on  one  of  my  journeys 
home  to  my  native  city  of  Albany,  I  remember  straining 
my  eyes  in  the  fading  twilight  as,  seated  in  the  train,  I 
read  for  the  first  time  of  the  peasant  painter  in  an 
article  by  Eugene  Benson  in  the  now  long  defunct 
"Appleton's  Journal."  The  details  of  the  article  I 
have  forgotten,  but  there  must  have  been  in  it  some  in- 
sistent appeal,  for  my  heart  leaped  up  when,  on  the 
very  first  day  of  my  arrival  in  Paris,  I  saw  in  a  dealer's 
window  a  small  picture  by  Millet,  one  of  the  nude 
nymphs  whose  company  he  deserted  when  he  went  to 
Barbizon  in  1848.  In  the  succeeding  weeks  I  saw  a 
number  of  other  works  bv  the  master,  for  I  early  found 

78 


"  The  young  Sarah  Bernhardt  "to  whose  "  voice 
of  gold"  we  Hstened  in  1873 


JEAN   FRANCOIS   MILLET  79 

my  way  to  the  hospitable  galleries  of  Durand-Ruel, 
who,  almost  alone  in  Paris  at  the  time,  had  the  courage 
to  display  his  work,  and  in  whose  handsome  rooms  a 
student  appeared  to  find  a  welcome  not  always  vouch- 
safed by  other  dealers. 

When,  after  reaching  Barbizon  by  the  roundabout 
route  of  Recloses,  as  I  have  already  described,  I  found 
myself  with  Wyatt  Eaton,  domiciled  in  a  couple  of 
rooms  and  a  studio,  which  a  thrifty  peasant  had  built 
over  his  house  on  the  village  street,  and  realized  that  a 
few  doors  away  this,  to  me,  greatest  of  modern  painters 
lived,  the  desire  to  know  him  rose  uppermost  in  my 
thoughts.  Eaton,  who  had  been  longer  in  Barbizon 
than  I,  was  no  less  desirous,  but  was  less  hopeful  of 
our  being  able  to  accomplish  our  purpose,  as  he  had 
heard  many  stories  of  the  great  man's  inaccessibility. 

The  great  painter  never  came  near  Sirons,  where  we 
took  our  meals,  and  in  fact  I  rarely  saw  him  on  the 
village  street;  his  garden  communicating  with  the 
fields  and  the  forest  in  which  he  walked  by  preference. 
His  son  and  namesake,  a  painter  of  about  our  age,  was, 
however,  occasionally  at  Siron's;  his  acquaintance  we 
made,  and,  to  our  request  that  we  might  know  his 
father,  he  consentingly  promised  to  arrange  a  meeting. 
Before  this,  however,  I  had  in  my  journeys  between 
our  lodging  and  the  hotel  frequent  glimpses  of  Millet 
in  his  home  through  the  window  which  opened  on  the 
street.  This  room  was  level  with  the  ground,  and 
served  as  the  dining-room  of  Millet  and  his  numerous 
brood,  and  the  picture  presented  to  the  passer-by  might 
well  be  of  the  composition  of  the  master,  who,  seated 
at  the  head  of  his  table,  seemed  the  very  prototype  of 


/ 


80        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  patriarch.  It  was  a  pleasant  first  sight  of  one 
whose  miseries,  pinching  and  true  enough  at  times  in 
his  career,  have  been  given  too  much  prominence  in 
Sensier's  otherwise  authoritative  biography.  Much  in- 
sistence has  also  been  placed  on  Millet's  peasant  birth 
by  those  who  ignore  or  forget  that  the  intellectual 
health  of  France  is  constantly  alimented  by  this  strong 
and  vigorous  stock.  The  country  even  to-day  is  largely 
agricultural,  devoted  to  culture  on  a  small  scale  where 
man  remains  close  to  nature  in  his  daily  toil;  a  retention 
of  quasi-primitive  conditions  which  we  have  lost  in  our 
immense  tracts  cultivated  by  machinery,  where  the 
farmer  is  more  familiar  with  profit  and  loss  as  shown 
by  his  ledger  than  he  is  with  the  furrow  through  which 
he  drives  the  plough.  The  arts  particularly  appear  to 
recruit  their  practitioners  from  the  peasant  class,  but, 
as  shown  in  Millet's  case  as  in  many  others,  the  pur- 
suit of  their  studies,  the  elevation  of  thought  imposed 
by  their  vocation,  soon  lifts  them  from  the  level  of  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  to  whom,  with  many  antique  vir- 
tues to  his  share,  the  peasant  is  closely  allied.  This 
characterization  is  not  unjust,  apphed  by  one  who  has 
counted  many  friends  among  them  and  who  has  a 
hearty  admiration  for  the  class  as  it  may  still  be  found 
in  France.  The  dominant  characteristic  of  the  peasant 
is  his  love  for  the  soil,  from  which  he  has  wrested  not 
only  his  living,  but  by  the  practice  of  an  economy,  so 
intense  that  one  can  with  difficulty  reaUze  it  to  be 
humanly  possible,  he  has  put  aside  something  for  the 
proverbial  "rainy  day."  This  is  generally  applied  to 
the  acquisition  of  more  land,  frequently  only  a  few 
square  feet  being  added  to  his  holding  from  year  to 


JEAN   FRANCOIS   MILLET  81 

year,  but  the  equally  strong  trait  of  his  people,  the  sense 
of  the  solidarity  of  the  family,  will  loose  his  purse- 
strings  at  the  call  of  a  pronounced  vocation  for  higher 
pursuits  on  the  part  of  any  member  of  his  family. 
Paris  always  numbers  among  her  students  many 
sprung  from  such  a  source,  supported  wholly  or  in 
part  by  fathers  and  mothers  to  whom  the  printed  word 
is  unintelligible,  but  whose  hoarding  is  thus  cheerfully 
dispersed  at  the  call  of  an  imperious  vocation  which 
they  only  vaguely  understand.  Many  a  bachelor  of 
sciences  or  letters  returns  in  his  vacations  to  eat  the 
parental  soup  in  a  room  with  an  earthen  floor,  sur- 
rounded by  an  admiring  family  who  can  hardly  speak, 
much  less  read  or  write,  their  native  language.  One 
of  my  French  comrades,  as  an  excuse  for  his  absence 
from  a  student  gathering,  pleaded  one  day  that  he  was 
obliged  to  take  a  lesson  in  French  as  he  had  just  won 
the  Prix  de  Rome;  "and  now,"  he  added,  "as  I  must 
meet  well-educated  people,  I  must  learn  to  speak  my 
language  correctly." 

Millet,  whose  great-uncle  was  a  priest,  who,  at  the 
abolition  of  his.curacy  at  the  time  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, had  returned  to  the  cultivation  of  the  soil,  was 
more  fortunate  than  many,  for,  at  the  hands  of  this 
good  man,  he  had  received  a  solid  instruction  in  letters, 
tinctured  even  with  the  classics  in  Latin.  His  family, 
indeed,  as  may  occasionally  be  found  among  the 
peasants,  were  superior  in  mind  to  their  class,  and 
when,  driven  from  Paris  by  the  cholera  in  1848,  he 
came  to  Barbizon,  there  was  nothing  in  common  be- 
tween him  and  the  peasant  inhabitants  of  the  village. 
He  and  his  family  were  looked  upon  as  bourgeois  from 


82        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  first,  and  to  be  of  that  class  without  an  assured 
income  is  to  be  viewed  with  suspicion  in  any  French 
village.  Hence  the  very  genuine  hardship  by  which 
the  whilom  peasant  and  his  family  were  assailed,  for 
the  sturdy  common-sense  of  the  father  demanded  good 
and  plentiful  food  for  his  growing  family,  of  which 
there  were  eventually  nine  children,  and  caused  them  to 
be  regarded  as  demanding  luxuries  without  the  ready 
money  to  pay  for  them.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  Millet's  industry,  even  at  the  small  prices  which 
his  work  then  commanded,  brought  sufficient  at  most 
times  to  support  his  family  in  a  comfort  unknown  to 
his  neighbours;  and  we  find  in  Sensier's  life  many 
letters  of  the  master  which  show  purchases  of  engrav- 
ings, photographs,  and  the  like;  necessities  of  his  craft, 
to  be  sure,  but  not  likely  to  be  acquired  by  the  half- 
starved  peasant  of  the  legend  which  has  grown  up  about 
Millet. 

At  the  time  when  I  first  went  to  Barbizon  the  family 
had  long  outgrown  the  suspicion  and  jealousy  from 
which  they  had  suffered,  and  though  living  scrupulously 
apart,  not  only  from  their  peasant  neighbours,  but  from 
the  few  resident  artists,  they  were  universally  regarded 
with  respect.  The  Millet  house,  its  gable  to  the  street 
and  its  entrance  through  the  garden  wall,  by  which  it 
was  joined  to  the  studio,  was  a  structure  of  a  single 
story,  picturesque  and  cosy  enough  in  appearance.  I 
remember  at  the  time  thinking  it  an  ideal  home  for  an 
artist,  but  from  a  modern  hygienic  standpoint,  rheu- 
matism and  perhaps  graver  ills  lurked  in  its  recesses. 

It  was,  and  has  remained,  a  memorable  day  when 
the  green  gate  into  the  garden  was  opened  to  me  for 


J.   F.  Millet 
From  a  drawing  by  \V.  H.  Low 


JEAN   FRANCOIS   MILLET  85 

confounded  the  practice  of  the  school  with  that  of  the 
mature  artist;  forgetting  that  in  one  is  learned  the 
handling  of  the  tools,  and  that  the  other  represents  the 
result  of  such  study  in  the  production  of  the  master- 
craftsman.  Some  question  of  this  kind  I  ventured  to 
make,  asking  how  in  the  studio  lighted  by  a  single 
window  he  could  study  the  model  as  the  figure  would 
be  lit  out-of-doors.  For  reply  he  showed  me  a  drawing, 
a  mere  quick-sketch,  as  I  fear  even  other  zealous  fol- 
lowers of  Gerome,  among  whose  pupils  I  was  num- 
bered at  the  time,  would  not  have  hesitated  to  judge; 
but  now,  to  my  better  understanding,  appearing,  as  I 
remember  it,  to  have  the  indication  of  all  the  essential 
construction  of  the  figure  tKat  the  master,  with  his 
knowledge  of  form,  needed  to  work  from.  The  answer 
to  my  question  appeared  to  me,  however,  enigmatic; 
and  Millet,  speaking  slowly  and  with  much  emphasis, 
explained  that  a  figure  arrested  in  movement  and  with 
muscles  relaxed  demanded  at  the  best  on  the  part  of 
the  artist  a  memory  of  the  appearance  of  the  figure  in 
action;  that  for  him  the  weary  imitation  of  a  posed 
model  seemed  less  true,  less  like  nature,  than  to  follow 
a  hasty  sketch  with  added  truths  garnered  from  a  long 
and  close  observation,  aided  by  the  memory  of  the  rela- 
tion between  a  figure  and  its  background  under  certain 
effects  of  light. 

In  my  own  efforts,  especially  during  the  two  years  in 
New  York  in  drawing  for  illustration,  I  had  noticed 
that  I  could  frequently  draw  a  better  figure  from 
memory  than  from  nature;  or  at  least,  by  discarding  a 
drawing  made  from  a  model,  could  repeat  the  drawing 
from  memory  and  infuse  it  with  more  life  than  my  first 


86        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

study  possessed.  I  ventured  to  speak  of  this,  and 
Millet  said:  "If  you  have  that  faculty  it  is  fortunate, 
and  is  one  that  you  should  cultivate;  but  perhaps  it  is 
best  for  you  at  present  not  to  depend  too  much  upon  it; 
you  tell  me  that  you  are  in  the  Atelier  Gerome;  there, 
or  wherever  you  work,  think  only  of  rendering  the 
model  as  truthfully  as  you  can;  it  is  by  such  practice 
that  you  will  famiharize  your  eye  to  see  and  your  mind 
to  retain  the  construction  and  the  proportion  of  the 
human  figure,  and  later  on  you  will  be  able,  through 
such  knowledge,  to  be  the  master  and  not  the  slave  of 
the  chance  individual  model  who  serves  you,  and  give 
to  your  work  the  typical  rather  than  the  accidental 
character  of  nature."  If  I  put  this  answer  in  quotation 
marks,  it  is  with  no  pretense  of  repeating  Millet's  words; 
on  the  contrary,  that  great  man,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
humble  student  unfamiliar  with  his  language,  took  the 
trouble  to  repeat  his  phrases,  to  speak  slowly,  to  vary 
the  form  of  what  he  said  when  he  saw  that  I  did 
not  thoroughly  understand.  I  have  always  felt  that 
something  of  his  earnestness,  in  a  partially  hypnotic 
fashion,  penetrated  my  understanding,  despite  the 
unfamiliarity  to  me  of  the  language  which  he  spoke, 
though  it  had  then  been  for  some  months  my  only 
medium  of  communication  with  my  new  found  French 
friends. 

By  this  time  I  own  I  had  forgotten  the  headache  from 
which  Millet  was  suffering,  and  so,  in  my  own  excuse, 
I  am  certain  had  he,  for  he  continued  as  he  talked  to 
show  me  various  pictures;  once  I  remember  saying, 
reflectively,  before  one  of  them:  "Not  so  bad;  it  is  a 
good  thing  not  to  see  your  work  for  six  months,"  denot- 


JEAN  FRANCOIS   MILLET  87 

ing  the  time  that  that  particular  picture  had  been  turned 
to  the  wall,  perhaps  in  temporary  discouragement. 

I  saw  that  day  many  of  the  pictures  which  formed 
the  collection  sold  at  the  Hotel  Drouot  after  the  master's 
death,  eighteen  months  after — some  of  them  left  as  I 
had  seen  them,  others  carried  to  further  completion. 

Upon  an  easel  during  all  this  time  my  glance  had 
rested  from  time  to  time  on  what  was  evidently  a  large 
picture  covered  by  drapery  thrown  over  it.  At  length 
Millet  asked  me  to  step  back,  placing  me  behind  a 
curtain  hung  to  a  rod  which  projected  at  right  angles 
to  the  window,  so  that  to  a  person  standing  there  the 
window  was  entirely  hidden.  Then  he  removed  the 
drapery,  allowing  the  light  from  the  window  to  fall 
directly  on  the  picture;  and  a  surprising  thing  occurred. 

Ever  since  I  have  had  consciousness  of  life,  I  believe 
that  I  have  been  looking  at  pictures.  At  that  time  I 
had  seen  many,  and,  since  then,  many,  many  more; 
but  before  or  since  no  picture  has  produced  upon  me 
the  exact  effect  of  that  which  I  then  saw.  I  looked  out 
on  a  plain  with  apple-trees  in  blossom,  on  either  side 
of  a  tortuous  road  which  ran  to  high  woods  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  plain  was  in  mingled  light  and  cloud 
shadow,  and  the  wooded  distance,  strongly  illumined, 
showed  bright  against  a  clearing  storm-sky,  a  portion  of 
which  was  traversed  by  a  rainbow. 

The  picture  is  well  known;  is  now  in  the  Louvre, 
where  on  many  occasions  since  I  have  studied  it  with 
continuing  admiration,  but  with  no  trace  of  the  amazing 
sensation  I  experienced  on  that  day.  For  then  /  did 
not  realize  that  it  was  a  painted  canvas.  As  a  picture, 
it  has   little   of  the   photographic   realism   with   which 


88        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

many  painters  have  endowed  their  work;  it  has  nothing 
of  the  factitious  rehef  which  the  French  term  trornpe- 
Vail,  such  as  we  know  in  the  famiHar  panorama  or 
the  clever  scenic  reahsm  of  the  stage.  Nor  was  my 
feeHng  exactly  that  of  looking  on  a  real  scene,  so  much 
as  that  I  was,  by  the  magic  of  the  painter's  art,  lifted 
out  of  myself  and  made  to  realize  the  poignant  sensa- 
tion of  the  reawakening  of  nature  in  the  spring.  To 
one  who  compares  the  picture  reproduced  in  these 
pages  with  what  I  here  endeavour  to  describe,  my 
words  probably  convey  but  little  meaning,  and  I  can 
only  say  that  I  was  so  moved,  so  shaken  in  my  entire 
being,  that  I  made  at  the  time  no  effort  to  describe  my 
feeling  to  the  painter,  as,  barely  able  to  control  my 
emotion,  I  left  him. 

I  have  since  endeavoured  to  explain  to  myself  this 
episode,  unique  in  my  life's  experience,  by  the  plausible 
reason  that  throughout  the  afternoon,  in  my  tense 
desire  to  follow  from  one  beautiful  work  to  another  the 
great  painter's  intention,  I  had  fairly  surrendered  all 
my  sentient  nature  to  his  effort.  When  at  the  last  this 
masterwork  was  shown  me,  the  method  of  its  produc- 
tion faded  before  my  mind,  and  the  evocation  of  the 
spirit  of  the  scene  alone  remained. 

In  the  few  remaining  weeks  of  my  stay  that  summer 
I  saw  the  master  twice  more;  once  in  his  son's  studio 
where  there  was  a  large  picture,  now  in  the  Boston 
Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  which  was  left  unfinished  at  his 
death.  It  is  a  life-sized  figure  of  a  young  peasant  girl 
with  distaff  hanging  loosely  in  her  hands,  her  head 
upthrown,  shaded  by  a  large  straw  hat  in  dark  relief 
against  a  luminous  sky.     To  my  exclamation  that  for 


JEAN   FRANCOIS   MILLET  89 

a  figure  of  this  size  he  must  surely  have  used  a  model, 
the  patient  artist  jestingly  assured  me  that  the  only 
direct  study  of  nature  was  of  a  tuft  of  grass  in  the  fore- 
ground, "which  I  plucked  in  the  field,  brought  into  the 
studio,  and  copied^^^  with  an  insistence  on  the  last  word. 
Before  returning  to  Paris  at  the  end  of  the  summer,  I 
again  sought  Millet;  this  time  for  advice  to  resolve  a 
question  which  had  an  important  bearing  on  my  future, 
and  which  was  presented  in  so  flattering  a  manner  that 
it  was  most  tempting;  though  my  better  reason  sought 
strength  to  put  it  aside  by  confirmation  from  Millet. 

I  must  here  explain  that  among  the  many  picturesque 
and  mysterious  characters  who  in  those  days  dwelt  in 
Barbizon,  there  was  a  certain  lady  whose  name,  if  I 
knew  it  at  the  time,  I  have  forgotten,  but  who  was 
generally  designated  by  the  simple  title  of  the  "  Count- 
ess." Whether  this  rank  was  hers  by  right,  what  her 
real  station  in  life  may  have  been,  I  know  not;  but, 
for  more  than  a  year  she  inhabited  a  detached  building 
containing  a  few  living  rooms  and  a  large  studio,  which 
had  been  built  on  the  plain  outside  the  village  by  a 
well-known  animal  painter,  Brendel  by  name.  In 
iSyo-'yi,  at  the  time  of  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  as 
the  painter  was  of  the  hated  nationality,  he  had  found 
it  more  agreeable  to  hve  elsewhere,  and  though  the 
large  and  fine  studio  was  looked  upon  with  covetous 
eyes  by  a  number  of  the  painters,  it  now  served  as  a 
habitation  for  the  Countess  and  her  dogs.  Of  these 
she  had  at  least  a  dozen,  and  at  all  times  in  all  weathers 
we  met  her  on  the  plain  or  in  the  forest,  accompanied 
by  her  canine  friends;  with  whom  she  communicated  in  a 
strange,  guttural  language,  which  was  not  German,  but 


90        A   CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

which  was  unknown  to  us  all.  Elsewhere  than  in  Barbi- 
zon  she  would  have  excited  a  more  vivid  curiosity,  but 
the  inhabitants  of  the  village  and  its  artist  frequenters 
were  inured  to  all  species  of  eccentricity,  and  the  latter 
especially,  busy  with  their  w^ork,  were  past  masters  in 
the  art  of  minding  their  own  business.  Beyond  these 
casual  encounters  in  my  walks,  I  had  not  otherwise 
seen  this  lady  or  held  communication  with  her,  when, 
one  morning  in  the  Httle  studio  which  I  shared  with 
Eaton,  who  happened  to  be  away  at  the  time,  she 
entered  unannounced.  Without  preamble,  upon  my 
inquiring  the  reason  for  the  honour  of  her  visit,  she 
informed  me  that  in  a  few  days  the  painter  Munkacsy 
would  arrive  in  Barbizon  for  the  summer;  that  there 
was  no  suitable  studio  to  be  had  for  him;  and  that  I 
would  be  doing  no  more  than  my  duty  to  vacate  the 
one  which  I  occupied  with  my  friend,  and  place  it  at 
his  disposition.  Somewhat  staggered  at  this  extraor- 
dinary proposition,  I  mildly  explained  that  I  had 
begun  certain  work  in  the  studio,  that  my  own  industry 
would  be  suspended  if  I  vacated  it;  that  Eaton  was 
also  to  be  consulted,  and  that,  in  brief,  to  my  great 
regret,  I  saw  no  possibility  of  our  accepting  her  genial 
suggestion.  "  But,"  she  urged,  "  Munkacsy  is  a  very 
great  artist — tres  grand  peintre — and  you  and  your 
friend,"  with  a  circHng  regard  for  our  works  by  which 
I  sat  surrounded,  "are  only  students."  Finally,  more 
amused  than  angry,  I  bethought  me  of  a  studio  in  an- 
other house,  of  which  I  found  she  did  not  know,  and 
despatched  her  thither. 

In  a  few  days  Munkacsy  arrived,  occupied  the  studio 
which  his  fair  friend  had  secured  for  him,  and  took  his 


JEAN  FRANCOIS   MILLET  91 

meals  with  us  at  Siron's  table  d'hote.  Beyond  the  ordi- 
nary amenities  of  the  table  I  saw  Httle  of  him,  until, 
one  day  when  I  had  waited  in  vain  an  hour  or  more 
for  the  appearance  of  Madame  Richard,  my  favourite 
model  among  the  peasant  women,  I  went  to  her  home, 
to  find  that  she  had  gone  to  pose  for  Munkacsy.  "  Vous 
comprenez,  Monsieur,"  suavely  explained  her  husband, 
"that  he  pays  her  two  francs  the  hour,  while  you  only 
pay  one."  The  price  that  I  paid  was  the  recognized 
tariff,  but  I  knew  that  any  plea  that  a  promise  given 
or  an  engagement  made  was  binding  was  useless  here, 
and  so  with  fire  in  my  eye  I  sought  the  studio  of  Mun- 
kacsy, where  I  found  Madame  Richard  placidly  posing 
— curiously  enough — for  the  peasant  woman  in  the  pic- 
ture of  the  "Mont  de  Piete"  now  in  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  of  Art  in  New  York. 

A  few  earnest  words  gave  Munkacsy  an  understand- 
ing of  the  situation,  and  he  became  at  once  apologetic; 
and  then  and  there  we  arrived  at  an  agreement  by 
which  we  could  share  the  services  of  the  model,  by 
making  engagements  on  different  days.  The  early 
success  of  Munkacsy  in  the  Salon,  with  his  "Last  Day 
of  a  Condemned  Man,"  was  then  comparatively  recent, 
and  had  been  repeated  in  some  degree  in  the  succeeding 
exhibitions.  Immediately  after  the  war  the  Paris  Salon 
opened  its  doors  to  many  foreign  painters,  and  of  these 
Munkacsy,  though  of  German  training,  was  by  far  the 
most  favoured. 

Like  all  students,  a  Salon  success  counted  for  me  in 
those  days  as  a  permanent  title  to  fame,  and,  as  his 
later  career  gave  ample  confirmation,  the  Hungarian 
painter  had  many  of  the  qualities  that  go  to  make  the 


92        A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

great  artist.  I  was  therefore  considerably  elated  when, 
a  few  days  after,  he  came  to  see  me  in  my  little  studio, 
and  gave  me  valuable  criticism  upon  my  work.  He 
accompanied  his  strictures  with  praise  which  even  then 
appeared  exaggerated,  though  I  did  not  at  the  time 
appreciate,  as  I  do  now,  that  it  was  a  part  of  the  im- 
petuousness  of  manner,  which  was  marked  in  his 
every  word  or  action.  Thereafter  he  made  me  fre- 
quent visits,  and,  of  course,  we  saw  each  other  con- 
stantly at  the  hotel. 

It  was  then  my  intention  to  return  at  the  close  of  the 
summer  to  the  atelier  Gerome,  and,  with  many  shrugs  of 
the  shoulders  and  protestations  that  my  master  might 
be  a  great  artist,  might  be  this  or  might  be  that,  might 
be  all  that  I  claimed  him  to  be,  "  but  not  a  painter,  no, 
not  a  painter,  du  tout,  du  tout,  du  tout^''  he  essayed  to 
dissuade  me  from  returning  to  study  with  him.  Natu- 
rally his  words  had  weight,  and  when,  later,  with  much 
earnestness,  he  assured  me  that  with  my  faculty  for 
composition  I  would  do  better  to  take  a  studio  and 
produce  pictures,  arranging  my  subjects  so  that  every 
element  could  be  closely  studied  from  nature,  and 
in  this  way  acquire  by  constant  practice  the  knowl- 
edge which  I  sought  in  the  school,  the  proposition 
seemed  most  alluring.  The  vision  of  a  place  of  my 
ow^n,  the  possibility  of  arriving  at  my  desired  result  in 
my  own  way,  and  my  absolute  ignorance  of  the  many 
difficulties,  material  and  zesthetic,  of  such  a  course  made 
the  prospect  distinctly  enchanting.  Fortunately,  I  had 
a  residuum  of  common-sense,  and  I  finally  put  the 
question  to  Millet.  I  found,  rather  to  my  surprise, 
that  he  was  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  position  which 


Maternal  Lares 

P'rom  a  painting  bv  W.  H.  Low  in  the  possession  of  (}.  H.  Thacher,  Esq., 
Albany,  N.  Y. 
This,  my  first  work  in  France,  was  the  picture  on  which  I  was  engaged  at  Barbizon 
in  the  Autumn  of  '73,  and  which  causeti  Munkacsy  to  advise  my  desertion  of 
school  work,  as  described  on  p.  44.] 


JEAN  FRANCOIS   MILLET  93 

Munkacsy  had  already  acquired,  the  Salon  in  his 
isolation  occupying  him  but  little.  But  upon  the  main 
point  of  my  problem  he  was  almost  vehemently  em- 
phatic in  its  condemnation.  "What  would  you  think 
of  a  poet  arrested  in  his  composition  by  a  question  of 
grammar?"  he  inquired.  "The  school  affords  the 
easiest  way  of  continually  studying  from  nature.  The 
casts  from  antique  statues  stand  still  for  you  to  learn 
the  structure  of  the  human  figure;  the  models,  trained 
as  they  are,  are  almost  equally  in  the  same  manner  at 
the  disposition  of  the  student,  who  must  laboriously 
acquire  this  knowledge.  It  does  not  matter  so  much 
who  the  master  may  be,  every  one  should  listen  to  the 
dictates  of  his  nature  and  follow  them" — here,  perhaps, 
he  was  thinking  of  his  own  revolt  in  the  atelier  Delaroche, 
where,  reproached  with  studies  apparently  hewn  out  of 
wood,  he  had  retorted  that  the  figures  of  the  more  ap- 
proved students  of  the  master  were  made  "of  butter 
and  honey" — "but  continuous  study  from  nature  is 
the  only  salvation.  Look  at  the  antique,  study  the 
masters  in  the  Louvre  to  see  what  these  men  have  done 
with  the  knowledge  which  they  have  gained  by  their 
study — the  elements  of  style,  the  suppression  of  detail 
which  is  detrimental  to  the  typical  character  which  you 
must  endeavour  always  to  bear  in  mind  when  you  are 
trying  to  make  a  picture;  but,  when  you  are  making  a 
study  in  the  school,  copy  slavishly  all  that  is  individual, 
even  that  which  you  may  think  ugly;  and,  from  the 
accumulation  of  such  information  as  you  gain  of  the 
varieties  of  the  human  form,  you  will  learn  what  will 
best  serve  you  when  you  wish  to  express  your  own 
individual  view  of  nature." 


94        A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

This  time  I  fully  understood,  though,  again,  I  only 
repeat  the  sense  and  not  the  textual  words  of  the  master 
as  they  were  then  crystallized  in  my  memory;  and  with 
a  wiser  head,  though  perhaps  not  altogether  a  lighter 
heart,  prepared  again  to  take  up  my  studies  in  the  school. 

I  have  been  thus  explicit  in  relating  this  incident  in 
detail,  because  I  believe  that  it  may  prove  useful.  Our 
habit  of  arriving  at  results  quickly  works  no  greater 
havoc  in  any  department  of  our  national  intellectual 
effort  than  in  our  art.  The  many  briUiant  debuts  of 
American  painters  in  the  past  generation  and  the  rarer 
confirmation  of  their  promise  is  sufficiently  marked. 
It  is  not,  I  believe,  the  American  artist,  taken  as  a  type, 
so  much  as  his  environment  that  is  at  fault.  Parents 
and  influential  friends  begin  with  the  neophyte  in  the 
student  stage  to  demand  prompt  results,  and  our  public 
is  for  the  most  part  indifferent  to  the  slow  progress  by 
which  a  definite  expression  is  achieved;  and  as  quickly 
as  an  artist  has  shown,  in  early  and  immature  work, 
the  possession  of  talent,  he  may  be  extravagantly 
lauded.  If  he  is  a  man  of  parts,  he  affronts  new  en- 
deavour with  the  laudable  desire  to  deserve  his  suc- 
cess, and  by  earnest  effort  produces  work  retaining  his 
first  qualities  and  adding  others;  only  to  be  accused  of 
"repeating  himself."  Baffled — with  the  knowledge 
that  Raphael,  Velasquez,  e  tutti  quanti  made  no  other 
progress  than  by  repeating  themselves  with  continual 
added  qualities — he  is  pushed  aside,  and  the  fickle 
public  turns  to  the  newcomer  with  its  welcome — and 
most  necessary — encouragement;  reserving  the  right  to 
dethrone  him  in  turn,  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter. 


JEAN  FRANCOIS   MILLET  95 

Happy  the  land  that  knows  that  art  is  long,  and 
happy  the  man  who,  like  Jean  Francois  Millet,  lives 
his  life  in  full  acceptance  of  this  truth,  and,  with  the 
unceasing  industry  of  the  coral-insect,  adds  day  by  day 
the  essential  quota  to  his  life  fabric.  Another  great 
Frenchman,  the  sculptor  Rude,  has  said  that  the  only 
real  misfortune  that  can  befall  an  artist  is  interruption 
to  his  work,  "La  grande  chose  pour  tin  artiste — c'est  de 
fat  re. 

It  is  somewhat  curious  that  all  that  Millet  said  to  me, 
all  that  produced  so  strong  an  impression  on  his  hearer, 
was  in  total  ignorance  of  what  my  work  might  be;  for 
so  conscious  of  its  shortcomings  w^as  I  that,  though  he 
asked  me  to  bring  my  studies  to  him  more  than  once, 
I  never  dared  to  do  so,  even  when  in  the  following  year 
he  permitted  me  to  visit  his  studio  quite  frequently. 
There  were  many  minor  technical  questions  which  he 
willingly  answered  to  my  eager  inquiry,  but  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  more  general  statements,  which  I  have 
endeavoured  to  reproduce,  formed  part  of  his  belief 
which,  living,  especially  in  his  later  years,  a  solitary 
life — the  earlier  comrades,  his  fellow-giants  of  the 
Barbizon  school,  being  gone — he  had  formulated  in  his 
mind;  and  my  presence  and  my  problems  simply 
offered  a  pretext  for  their  utterance. 


VIII 

PEASANTS  AND  PAINTERS 

ARBIZON  had,  in  the  days  of  which  I  write,  few 
distinctive  features  as  a  village.  It  may  be  to- 
day, as  an  agglomeration  of  villas,  more  like  a 
certain  type  of  pleasure  resort  common  in  France  than 
it  was  typical  as  a  village  then,  though,  with  my  old 
love  for  the  place,  I  have  never  dared  to  disturb  my 
memories  by  visiting  it  since  1886.  It  sufficed  on  a 
recent  trip  abroad  when,  coming  up  from  Italy,  I 
looked  out  as  the  train  made  its  stop  at  Melun,  and 
saw  a  trolley  car  with  Barbizon-Chailly  marking  its 
destination  in  large  letters.  Profanation  of  profana- 
tions! this  mechanical  contrivance  replaces  the  old 
yellow  omnibus  which  for  so  many  years  carried  the 
hopes,  ambitions,  and  the  persons  of  generations  of 
artists  to  the  village.  A  long  street,  lacking  even  the 
village  church  which  nearly  every  village  in  France 
possesses,  ran  from  the  plain  to  the  gate  of  the  forest. 
Beyond  the  absolutely  necessary  bureau  de  tahac,  where 
some  few  other  articles  were  sold,  there  were  no  shops 
even.  The  peasants  in  my  comparatively  late  day,  for 
when  I  knew  it  Millet  alone  remained  of  all  his  famous 
group,  had  received  but  little  impress  from  the  artistic 
frequenters  of  the  village,  and  in  the  case  of  the  older 
people  remained  as  primitive  as  though  the  great  city 
of  light  was  in  another  hemisphere,  rather  than  ten 
leagues  distant. 


La  Mere  Charlotte — my  landlady  in  Barbizon 


PEASANTS   AND   PAINTERS  97 

La  Mere  Charlotte,  as  the  village  knew  her,  was  the 
owner  of  the  house  where  Eaton  and  I  lodged,  mistress 
rather  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  for  her  more  easy- 
going husband,  Pierre,  sang  in  a  minor  key  in  the 
matrimonial  duet.  Bent  nearly  double  with  the  hard 
work,  which  from  four  in  the  morning  until  dark 
occupied  the  mother  Charlotte,  she  refused,  though 
she  dearly  loved  money,  to  stop  in  her  incessant  toil 
to  pose  for  me.  "  Voyez  vous/'  she  said  with  a  sort  of 
terror,  "I  must  keep  moving;  at  my  age,  if  I  should  stop, 
I  should  die."  But  she  willingly  proposed  her  husband, 
no  whit  her  junior,  as  a  substitute.  To  watch  from  the 
vantage  of  the  studio  window  the  triere  Charlotte  pur- 
chase from  the  ambulant  butcher,  who  drove  over  from 
the  neighbouring  village  of  Chailly,  her  Sunday  dinner 
was  a  lesson  in  the  value  of  centimes  as  a  factor  of 
commerce.  The  butcher,  an  opponent  worthy  of  her 
steel,  was  more  than  often  vanquished  at  the  end,  when, 
with  a  cry  like  the  rapacious  hawk,  the  bent  old  woman 
triumphantly  bore  away  some  inconsiderable  scrap  of 
meat  more  than  that  for  which  she  paid.  The  pot  au 
feu  on  Sunday  was  to  the  villagers  virtually  all  the  meat 
that  their  meagre  larders  knew  throughout  the  week, 
the  food  of  the  other  six  days  consisting  only  of  soup, 
bread,  and  wine. 

But  once  was  this  order  changed  in  Charlotte's  family, 
on  the  occasion  of  her  daughter's  marriage.  Pierre  and 
Charlotte  were  reputed  rich,  as  fortunes  were  counted 
among  the  peasants,  and  the  force  of  public  opinion 
overcame  their  avarice.  For  three  days  the  festival 
contmued;  a  table  spread  with  profusion  stood  for  all 
that  time  under  the  great  parte  cochere  that  led  under 


98        A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


our  studio  into  the  courtyard  between  the  house  and 
the  barns.  There  was  almost  continual  dancing  in 
the  court,  or  long  walks  were  undertaken  through  the 
fields  to  neighbouring  hamlets,  led  by  musicians,  two 
violins  and  a  fife,  followed  by  bride  and  groom,  and 
after  them  the  wedding  guests,  consisting  of  about  all 
the  peasant  population  of  Barbizon  who,  from  age  or 
participation  in  the  ceremonies,  were  able  to  walk.  A 
charming  picture  they  made,  too,  in  their  quaint  Sun- 
day finery  threading  their  way  through  the  paths  among 
the  standing  wheat  on  the  plain. 

Ah,  certainly,  Barbizon  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
la  mere  Charlotte  did  things  well!  but  meanwhile  the 
ancient  dame  was  the  most  unhappy  of  mortals.  No 
work  was  being  done,  and  money  was  being  expended! 
Upon  the  last  evening,  the  fun  still  furious,  and  the 
reehng  couples  in  the  courtyard  dancing  with  unabated 
enthusiasm,  she  approached  her  husband.  He,  poor 
soul,  was  enjoying  himself  with  some  welcome  sense  of 
repose  from  the  unceasing  toil  where  he  was  ordinarily 
forced  to  keep  pace  with  his  wife.  Pierre  stood  in 
starched  shirt,  his  hands  behind  his  back,  smihng  at 
the  scene  before  him,  while  his  weak  old  head  nodded 
time  to  the  music.  Conscious  of  the  force  of  public 
opinion,  and  knowing  that  she  was  powerless  to  make 
effective  protest,  the  rancour  of  her  contained  wrath 
broke  out  as  she  parodied  her  husband's  attitude  and 
action,  and  fairly  hissed:  ''Pierre,  Pierre,  t'es  comme 
caJ 

With  her  rapacity,  however,  I  always  found  her 
strictly  honest,  though  it  was  not  altogether  pleasant 
in  our  financial  transactions  to  find  that  she  had  no 


PEASANTS   AND   PAINTERS  99 

such  confidence  in  me.  For  some  years  after  the 
Franco-Prussian  war  paper  money  was  used,  bills  for 
five,  ten,  and  twenty  francs  upward  being  current. 
Mother  Charlotte,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write, 
was  unable  to  accustom  herself  to  these  notes.  Gold 
and  silver,  by  life-long  habit  and  a  species  of  intuition, 
she  knew;  but  when  paper  money  was  presented  she 
invariably  took  it  to  her  kitchen  table  where,  incised  in 
the  wood,  were  lines  conforming  to  the  rectangles  of 
the  various  notes.  She  knew  the  dimensions  alone  of 
each  note,  whose  face  remained  blank  to  her  under- 
standing. 

The  old  woman  never  ventured  far  from  home,  her 
courtyard  and  the  fields  she  possessed  on  the  plain  back 
of  her  garden,  where  with  knitting  in  hand  she  daily 
led  her  cow  to  pasture,  the  cow  being  held  by  a  cord  to 
prevent  trespass  on  a  neighbour's  grass,  were  the  extent 
of  her  journeys.  On  one  occasion  she  asked  me  how 
Monsieur  Masson's  new  house,  of  which  she  had  heard, 
was  progressing.  As  the  house  in  question  stood  a  few 
hundred  yards  distant  I  expressed  some  surprise, 
thinking  that  she  might  have  seen  its  progress  for 
herself,  but  she  assured  me,  and  I  have  no  doubt  but 
that  it  was  true,  that  for  ten  years  she  had  not  gone  the 
short  length  of  the  village  street,  despite  that  at  least 
sixteen  of  the  twenty-four  hours  she  was  on  her  feet 
and  in  movement.  Equally  strange  to  me  was  her 
answer  when  I  asked  the  meaning  of  a  word  I  had 
heard  one  day  in  Macheron,  a  hamlet  less  than  a  mile 
away.  "How  should  I  know,"  she  answered,  "they 
talk  quite  differently  in  Macheron  from  the  way  we  do 
in  Barbizon,  and,  besides,  Fve  not  been  in  Macheron 


100      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

since  I  was  a  young  girl."  Differing  from  this  aged 
ruminant,  Madame  Richard  rises  to  my  memory.  Also 
a  somewhat  bovine  creature,  yet  amply  proportioned, 
fully  six  feet  in  height,  with  large,  placid  eyes  set  under 
finely  arched  brows,  this  good  woman  might  stand  for 
a  type  of  mother-earth.  There  were  numerous  little 
Richards,  maternity  scarcely  causing  a  ripple,  I  imag- 
ine, in  the  placid  current  of  the  lives  of  this  couple. 
The  husband,  though  a  fit  male  for  this  rustic  Juno, 
was  of  less  pronounced  type,  but  to  see  them  together 
in  their  ordinary  life  was  to  approach  closely  to  primi- 
tive conditions.  They  were  of  the  poorer  class  of 
peasants,  though  each  year  as  I  returned  to  Barbizon  I 
was  perforce  conducted  to  view  some  new  addition  to 
their  landed  property,  each  new  acquisition  being  pos- 
sibly as  large  as  the  backyard  of  a  city  house.  Their 
own  thatch-covered  house  contained  but  one  large 
room,  where  at  nightfall  the  couple  and  their  brood 
nested;  how  it  was  difficult  to  comprehend.  In  the 
day  all  the  operations  of  household-life  were  carried  on 
there  and,  as  is  not  unusual,  there  were  one  or  two 
pieces  of  furniture,  part  of  their  heritage  undoubtedly, 
that  were  handsome  and  of  good  style.  In  this  menage 
the  husband  worked  in  the  fields,  as  during  the  summer, 
except  in  time  of  harvest,  when  every  able-bodied  in- 
habitant was  enrolled  for  the  recolte,  his  handsome  wife 
could  add  more  to  the  family  income  by  posing  for  the 
artists. 

Munkacsy's  figure  in  the  picture  already  spoken  of 
gives  but  little  of  her  ample  beauty,  and  in  my  two 
early  works  shown  here  my  inexperience  enabled  me  to 
realize  it  but  feebly.     One  of  these  pictures  has  a  slight 


Home-made  Bread 

From  the  painting  hy  Will   H.  Low,   in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  J.  \'ictor 
()nati\ia.  New  York. 


PEASANTS   AND   PAINTERS  101 

story  connected  with  it,  which,  as  I  write,  warns  me  that 
my  admiration  for  this  strong,  simple,  and  natural 
creature  may  not  fall  in  all  cases  on  sympathetic  ears. 
To  its  first  owner,  an  early  patron  of  my  youthful 
efforts,  I  once  described  this  couple,  and  told  how,  as 
in  some  cave  inhabited  by  giants,  I  had  seen  one  or 
the  other  in  mere  pleasantry  deliver  a  blow  that  would 
knock  down  an  ordinary  mortal,  and  which  even  with 
these  powerful  creatures  would  send  the  one  that 
received  it  reeling  half  across  the  room.  This  entirely 
without  anger,  on  the  contrary,  as  the  semblance  of  an 
awkward  caress.  And  in  like  manner,  though  in  a 
blaze  of  anger,  one  of  the  sturdy  children  would  receive 
a  forcible  demonstration  of  the  weight  of  the  mother's 
hand,  to  be  devoured  with  kisses  the  next  instant  by 
the  purely  instinctive  woman.  Undoubtedly  her  man- 
ners lacked  the  repose  "that  marks  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere,"  but  I  was  hardly  prepared  for  the  effect  of  my 
narration,  when  I  learned  long  after  that  the  possessor 
of  my  picture  promptly  disposed  of  it,  "rather  than 
own,"  as  he  expressed  it  shudderingly,  "the  picture  of 
such  a  brute."  But  if  in  many  ways  she  was  like  the 
lowly  kine,  or  even  the  mated  tigress,  she  was  not  with- 
out a  certain  dignity,  nor  in  her  simple  ignorance  did 
she  lack  feminine  sympathy;  as  once  when  I  responded 
negatively  to  her  query  if  my  home  in  my  own  country 
was  like  Barbizon,  near  enough  a  forest  for  my  people 
to  glean  faggots  for  the  winter  fire,  "I  pity  you,"  she 
said,  "it  must  be  a  poor  country."  Civilization  under 
the  Republic  must  also  have  a  softening  effect  on  na- 
tures like  these,  for  the  last  time  I  saw  Madame  Richard, 
some  twenty  years  ago,  she  gave  me  detailed  news  of 


102      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

her  numerous  family.  Aline  was  in  service  in  Melun, 
Hortense  and  Lucie  were  married,  Alphonse  was  ap- 
prenticed to  a  charcutier  in  Paris,  "and  my  four  little 
ones  that  you  have  never  seen,  are  at  school  to-day. 
I  wish  you  would  have  seen  them  this  morning,"  she 
added  proudly;  "I  dressed  them  all  in  their  sailor 
suits,  for  the  school  was  to  be  photographed,  and  they 
were  all  hien  johs.^'  Shades  of  the  Belle  Jardiniere  and 
its  ready-made  clothing,  my  primitive  Barbizon  and  its 
cave-dwellers  had  come  to  this  under  the  auspices  of 
the  third  RepubHc.  I  would  like  to  linger  over  my 
memories  of  the  Poacher,  or  describe  la  belie  Clarisse, 
who  was  of  another  and  much  superior  type,  a  jeune 
fille,  almost  bien  elevee  even,  according  to  the  standards 
of  much  higher  society,  but  memory  portraits  of  un- 
familiar types  may  spell  fatigue  for  my  reader. 

The  French  artist  contingent  in  Barbizon,  either 
residents  or  habitual  visitors,  presented  also  a  great 
diversity  of  character.  Perhaps  the  most  prominent 
of  these  was  Olivier  de  Penne,  who  lived  on  the  other 
side  of  the  forest  at  Marlotte,  though  scarce  a  week 
went  by  without  his  soldier-like  figure,  erect  on  his 
horse,  being  seen  at  Siron's.  Dismounting,  his  stay 
would  at  times  be  prolonged  for  days.  From  listening 
to  him,  I  fancy  that  I  arrived  at  a  better  understanding 
of  the  amazing  adventure  of  the  Second  Empire,  which 
dazzled  France  for  eighteen  years,  than  I  could  have 
acquired  in  any  other  manner.  His  tales  of  the  court 
at  Fontainebleau,  his  openly  expressed  scepticism  of 
the  existence  of  truth  or  honour  in  French  politics — 
since  so  handsomely  disproved,  though  the  way  of  the 
Republic  has  been  thorny;    the  whole  attitude  of  the 


House  of  the  Belle  Clarisse,  Burhizon,  1S75 

"La  Belle  Clarisse"  was  a  charming  young  girl,  a  relative  of  Mme.  Siron,  whose 
person  and  habitation  were  thus  christened,  quite  without  her  knowledge 


PEASANTS   AND   PAINTERS  103 


man  compelled  interest.  Like  many  others,  he  was 
not  so  black  as  he  was  painted  by  his  own  hand,  and, 
as  for  his  actual  painting,  many  collections  here  and  in 
France  count  his  clever  water-colours,  of  hounds  and 
huntsmen  in  the  green  forest  on  the  borders  of  which 
he  lived,  as  choice  possessions.  Fancy  near  him  at 
Siren's  table,  a  gentleman,  bearded  like  a  pard,  fairly 
bristling  with  black  hair,  eyebrows,  moustache  and 
beard;  dressed  in  a  scarlet  coat  as  an  upper  garment; 
a  good  fellow  despite  his  startling  appearance,  and  a 
good  painter — Albert  de  Gesne.  Next  him  appeared, 
perhaps,  the  low-voiced  and  retiring  Petitjean,  who 
had  decorated  the  palaces  of  many  multi-millionaires 
in  various  vague  South  American  republics,  from 
which  he  had  finally,  escaping  the  daily  revolutions, 
wrested  a  small  competence  and  had  retired  to  Bar- 
bizon.  He  it  was  who  was  entrusted  with  the  perilous 
duty  of  making  the  salad;  no  light  task  in  the  face  of 
some  forty  critics,  each  of  whom  considered  his  manner 
the  only  possible  one  of  doing  justice  to  that  delicate 
concoction.  Petitjean  always  prefaced  his  undertak- 
ing with  "Gentlemen,  shall  it  be  a  salade  Ingres  or  a 
salade  Delacroix?"  If  the  latter,  he  rose  from  the 
table  and  brought  from  some  hidden  receptacle  strange 
condiments  of  spices  and  peppers  which  had  grown 
under  the  Southern  sun  of  the  countries  which  he  had 
visited.  The  salade  Ingres,  on  the  contrary,  was 
severe  in  structure,  a  trifle  too  vinegary  for  my  taste,  but 
undoubtedly  classic  in  its  proportions,  and  fairly  aca- 
demic in  comparison  with  the  aromatically  romantic 
salade  Delacroix. 

In  these  earlier  days,  at  the  time  when  the  coffee  was 


104      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

served,  we  would  see  enter  the  handsome  and  genial 
Gaston  La  Fenestre,  who  lived  in  the  village  with  his 
widowed  mother.  Readers  of  Stevenson's  "Inland 
Voyage"  will  remember  the  touching  allusion  to  this 
gallant  painter,  who,  a  few  months  after,  was  taken 
away  in  mid-winter  by  rapid  consumption.  More 
than  one  of  us  felt  the  following  summer  saddened  by 
his  absence  from  our  expeditions  to  the  Caverne  des 
Brigands,  where  his  hunting-horn  was  wont  to  wake 
the  echoes  of  the  night. 

There  were  a  number  of  others  whose  names  alone 
survive  in  my  memory,  and  whose  individualities  are 
even  less  marked,  who  lived  in  the  village  and  fre- 
quented its  inn.  As  everything  was  conducted  by 
Siron  and  his  wife  on  a  basis  of  confidence  in  their 
guests,  I  fear  that  strict  allotment  of  charges  was  seldom 
arrived  at.  The  billiard-room  was  decorated  by  a 
long  line  of  silhouettes  of  the  various  frequenters  of 
the  inn,  executed  by  the  simple  process  of  filling  in 
with  black  the  shadow  of  the  head,  cast  upon  the  wall 
from  a  lighted  candle.  If  they  had  not  been  effaced 
long  ago,  portraits  of  all  who  figure  in  these  pages,  and 
many  more,  could  be  found  there.  There  were  no 
very  pronounced  devotees  of  the  game  of  billiards,  but 
the  room  was  the  nightly  resort,  not  only  of  the  lodgers 
of  the  inn,  but  of  the  resident  painters  whom,  from  the 
supposedly  somnolent  existence  of  some  of  them,  we 
irreverently  called  "snoozers." 

The  Sirons  were  early  abed,  while  their  guests  re- 
mained late,  for  the  doors  of  the  inn,  I  imagine,  were 
never  locked.  Early  in  the  evening  Siron  would  ap- 
proach the  shelves  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  whereon 


PEASANTS  AND   PAINTERS  105 

reposed  numerous  bottles  filled  with  cognac,  kirsch,  or 
other  liqueurs,  and  make  a  mental  calculation  of  their 
contents,  at  the  same  time  noting  those  of  his  guests 
who  happened  to  be  present.  The  next  morning  he 
would  revisit  the  bottles,  calculate  the  diminution  of 
their  contents,  impartially  divide  the  quantity  consumed 
by  the  number  of  men  in  the  room  the  night  before  at 
his  bedtime,  and  charge  its  cost  under  the  mysterious 
name  of  "estrats"  on  their  bills.  This  habit  of  the 
early  retirement  of  the  host  being  perfectly  well  known 
to  certain  of  the  "snoozers,"  w^ho  also  counted  among 
the  largest  of  the  consumers  of  "estrats,"  these  gentle- 
men habitually  managed  to  arrive  after  the  calculation 
described  above  had  taken  place,  and  consequently 
were  never  charged  with  their  spirituous  refreshment; 
a  thrifty  habit  which  amused  their  long-suffering  fel- 
lows, who  paid  for  this  vicarious  stimulant  without 
protest. 

Two  other  resident  painters  followed  the  example  of 
Millet  in  shunning  our  rather  noisy  society  at  the  inn, 
one  of  these  a  Frenchman,  the  other,  although  residing 
in  France  since  1848,  an  American.  The  French 
painter,  La  Chevre  by  name,  was  a  man  of  some  little 
fortune,  of  excellent  family,  and  considerable  talent. 
In  his  profession  he  was,  however,  quite  without  ambi- 
tion, and  at  the  time  when,  with  the  two  Stevensons,  I 
was  often  at  his  house,  one  large  picture,  on  which  he 
had  worked  for  years,  and  which  was  quite  evidently 
never  to  be  finished,  furnished  him  with  the  sole  pre- 
text to  industry  in  his  vocation  that  his  other  intellectual 
pursuits  demanded.  He  read  English,  and  told  us 
that,   at  one  time,  he  could   converse  fluently  in   our 


106      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

language,  though,  in  those  days,  he  could  never  be  per- 
suaded to  speak  anything  but  French.  He  had,  how- 
ever, a  quite  extraordinary  knowledge  of  our  literature, 
and  many  an  evening  was  spent  pleasantly  at  his  house. 
A  pupil  of  Jules  Dupre,  he  had  known  many  of  the 
greater  men  of  his  time  and  had  evidently  in  his  youth — 
he  was  then  a  man  past  sixty — travelled  much.  His 
house  and  manner  of  living,  for  so  simple  a  place  as 
Barbizon,  betokened  the  well-to-do  man  of  the  world, 
and  often  a  rare  bottle  of  wine,  oysters,  or  some  dainty 
from  Paris,  would  provide  a  fitting  end  to  an  evening 
spent  in  discussing  French  or  English  books. 

During  these  evenings,  joining  but  little  in  our  talk, 
Madame  La  Chevre  sat  by,  rolling  cigarettes  with 
plump  though  shapely  hands,  the  waxen  fingers  working 
deftly,  twisting  a  pinch  of  tobacco  into  its  thin  rice- 
paper  covering,  twirling  the  ends  to  prevent  the  ciga- 
rettes unroUing,  and  tossing  the  finished  product  into  a 
large  bowl  on  the  table  before  us,  from  which  we 
helped  ourselves.  The  pallor  of  her  hands  spread 
over  the  placid  face,  which  more  than  our  imagination 
endowed  with  a  conventual  aspect;  for  many  years 
before  she  had,  with  the  connivance  and  at  the  call  of 
her  lover,  escaped  from  a  convent.  The  sacrilegious 
renunciation  of  her  vows  had  effectually  prevented 
their  union  from  becoming  regularized,  for  the  laws  of 
France  forbid  marriage  without  the  consent  of  parents 
at  any  age  of  the  contracting  partieSs  except  that,  after 
attaining  majority,  the  child  may  serve  a  legal  notice 
of  the  intention  to  marry  upon  the  parents,  and,  after 
three  repetitions  of  this  ceremony,  the  marriage  may 
take  place.     But  so  strong  are  the  ties  of  family  in 


PEASANTS  AND   PAINTERS  107 

France,  that  this  extremity  of  serving  these  sommations 
respectueuses — respectful  summons — is  seldom  resorted 
to,  and  so  this  couple,  both  well  beyond  middle  life, 
were  living  in  irregular  union,  because  the  aged  mother 
of  one  of  them  would  not  consent  to  the  legalization  of 
her  son's  marriage.  A  more  respectable  couple  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find,  and  when,  some  years  after, 
the  death  of  the  mother,  preceding  only  by  a  year  or 
two  that  of  her  son,  permitted  him  to  regularize  his 
situation,  he  did  so  promptly.  When  I  last  heard  of 
his  widow  she  had,  in  the  words  of  my  informant, 
become  devote  and,  completely  reconciled  to  her  church, 
was  active  in  well  doing. 

To  me  she  remains  pictured  in  my  memory  as 
Anastasie  in  the  "Treasure  of  Franchard,"  and  I  recall 
Stevenson's  shout  of  elation  years  after  when  I  told 
him  of  my  instant  recognition  of  his  skilfully  drawn 
portrait;  while  much  of  the  Doctor's  philosophy,  in 
the  same  story,  brought  back  memories  of  our  long 
evenings  in  La  Chevre's  hospitable  house. 

My  American  friend  of  long  residence  in  Barbizon 
was  William  Babcock,  a  painter  almost  unknown  in 
this  country.  Babcock  was  of  Massachusetts  birth, 
and  went  as  a  student  to  Paris  about  the  same  time  as 
his  friend,  William  Morris  Hunt,  in  the  late  '40's. 
Unlike  Hunt,  who  was  to  return  and  achieve  reputa- 
tion here,  Babcock  elected  to  remain  in  France.  Living 
upon  a  modest  income,  he  had  managed  to  surround 
himself  with  many  rare  and  beautiful  works  of  art; 
and  in  their  study  and  contemplation  he  had  virtually 
forgotten  the  passage  of  time  and  the  necessity  of 
continuous  effort  in  our  proverbially  difficult  art.     The 


108      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

criticism  relating  to  Washington  Allston,  that  "he 
dreamed  so  industriously  that  he  forgot  the  necessity 
of  industry,"  appHed  with  equal  force  to  Babcock. 

Through  long  living  alone  he  had  become  a  con- 
firmed hypochondriac,  and  it  was  quite  by  chance  that 
he  consented  to  receive  and  to  know  Wyatt  Eaton  and 
myself,  though  in  all  our  relations  we  found  him  most 
genial  and  pleasant.  He  maintained,  however,  only 
the  most  necessary  relations  with  the  villagers,  and 
lived  behind  the  walls  of  his  pleasant  garden  as  though 
entrenched  in  a  fortress.  He  had  first  come  to  Bar- 
bizon  to  be  near  Millet,  with  whom  he  had  lived  on 
intimate  terms  for  many  years,  when  some  fancied 
affront  had  given  him  offence,  and  the  intimacy  had 
ceased.  To  Millet's  straightforward  and  simple  nature 
the  umbrageous  disposition  of  the  American  was  a 
sealed  book,  and  learning  from  him  that  he  deplored 
the  cessation  of  the  visits  of  "WiUiam,"  as  he  called 
him,  Eaton  and  I  at  last  prevailed  upon  our  friend  to 
go  to  Millet's  house  as  though  he  had  never  ceased  to 
visit  there.  This  he  did,  with  the  result  that  the  last 
months  of  Millet's  life  were  cheered  by  Babcock's  con- 
tinued friendly  offices,  and  at  the  end  he  was  by  the 
side  of  the  great  painter  as  he  breathed  his  last. 

Eaton  and  I  were  greatly  favoured  by  the  friendship 
of  this  recluse,  for  he  was  filled  with  the  traditions  of  the 
men  of  the  Barbizon  school,  and  as  he  repeated  their 
lessons  his  meaning  was  made  clear  by  constant  refer- 
ence to  drawings,  colour-sketches,  sketch-books,  and 
engravings  from  their  work,  of  which  he  had  a  store. 

His  own  work  was  of  an  intensely  personal  character, 
narrowly    missing    greatness.     He    might    be    termed 


PEASANTS   AND   PAINTERS  109 

colour-mad,  so  jewel-like  and  carried  to  its  last  inten- 
sity was  every  hue  of  his  palette.  Monticelli  was  in 
some  respects  a  prototype,  but  Babcock's  work,  though 
perhaps  never  attaining  the  full  compelling  force  of  the 
Marseillais  painter,  had  at  times  an  almost  Raphaelesque 
beauty  of  form.  This  quality,  however,  was  only 
partial  and  was  often  devoid  of  a  sense  of  proportion, 
so  that  a  beautifully  drawn  arm  might  be  almost  twice 
too  long  for  the  figure  to  which  it  was  attached.  Few 
of  his  works  survive,  for  he  worked  intermittently  on  a 
few  canvases  during  all  the  time  I  knew  him,  though  I 
never  failed  on  my  visits  to  France  to  seek  him  out, 
even  when  in  the  last  years  of  his  life  he  had  left  Bar- 
bizon  and  settled  at  St.  Cyr  near  Paris,  where  he  died 
a  few  years  ago.  Before  his  death  he  had  disposed  of 
the  best  of  the  examples  of  Millet  and  some  of  the  other 
treasures  which  he  had  acquired  in  his  early  years  in 
Paris;  but  several  of  his  own  works,  together  with  en- 
gravings and  sketches  by  men  of  the  Barbizon  school, 
he  left  as  a  legacy  to  the  Boston  Museum  of  Fine  Arts. 
Curiously  incomplete  in  his  equipment  as  an  artist, 
Babcock  presents  an  example  occasionally  met  with  in 
our  profession,  where  the  cultivation  of  taste  and  ap- 
preciation outruns  and  paralyzes  executive  ability  to 
such  a  degree  that  consecutive  production  becomes  im- 
possible. I  have  known  him  at  the  times  of  my  so- 
journs in  France,  five  or  six  years  often  elapsing  between 
them,  to  place  a  small  panel  on  his  easel  with  the  re- 
mark: "I  think  I  have  done  something  to  this  since 
you  saw  it  last."  Art  is  long,  it  is  true,  but  my  friend 
forgot  that  the  artist  is  not  eternal. 


IX 
PRE-STEVENSONIAN  DAYS  IN  BARBIZON 

AS  it  was  not  until  late  in  the  season  of  1874  that 
Bob  Stevenson  entered  as  an  active  influence 
into  my  life,  and  as  in  the  following  year,  with 
the  arrival  of  Louis  and  other  English-speaking 
friends,  the  Anglo-Saxon  element  changed  the  con- 
ditions under  which  I  first  knew  Barbizon,  I  am 
tempted  to  linger  over  my  earlier  souvenirs  of  the 
village.  These  are  indissolubly  associated  with  Wyatt 
Eaton,  with  whom  during  the  summers  of  1873-1874  I 
lodged  apart  from  the  hotel,  first  in  the  rooms  over  the 
mere  Charlotte,  and  the  following  year  in  a  house  on 
the  plain  outside  the  village,  whose  owner  rejoiced  in 
the  name  of  Father  Chicory.  Of  Eaton  I  had  had  a 
passing  glimpse  in  the  spring  of  1872  in  New  York. 
We  both  made  our  debuts  as  exhibitors  in  the  old 
building  of  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  in  the 
exhibition  of  that  year.  Our  maiden  works  were 
placed  near  to  each  other  upon  the  topmost  line  of  over- 
crowded pictures  and,  with  the  zeal  of  the  very  young, 
we  were  availing  ourselves  of  the  privileges  of  "  varnish- 
ing day,"  endeavouring,  no  doubt,  to  make  our  pic- 
tures look  as  well  as  they  could.  Eaton  I  can  still  see 
through  the  lapse  of  time,  earnest  with  the  earnestness 
with  which  through  life  he  performed  the  most  trifling 
act,  his  fine  cut  and  sensitive  face,  softened  by  the  in- 
cipient growth  of  an  adolescent  beard,  his  frank,  blue 

110 


PRE-STEVENSONIAN   DAYS  111 

eyes  beaming,  as  they  always  did,  with  kindness — the 
very  picture  of  a  young  artist.  Thus  the  young  Van 
Dyke  must  have  looked  in  his  youth.  His  face  was 
surmounted  by  a  Scotch  cap  with  ribbons  hanging 
pendant  on  his  neck — a  coiffure  at  which  the  Academy 
student  of  to-day  would  scoff,  and  which  even  then  ap- 
peared a  trifle  unusual;  but  Eaton  throughout  Hfc 
never  scrupled  to  look  the  artist,  even  when  the  ma- 
jority of  his  co-disciples  were  at  pains  to  conceal  their 
professional  identity  under  the  habiliments  of  the 
broker.  We  did  not  speak,  and  I  only  learned  his 
name  after  he  had  descended  from  the  step-ladder  and 
had  gone  away,  by  reading  the  signature  on  his  picture. 
The  following  year  I  met  him  in  Paris,  where  for  a  time 
we  worked  side  by  side  in  the  atelier  Gerdme^  and  from 
that  our  intimacy  increased  until  we  lodged  under  the 
same  roof  in  the  country.  I  have  told  of  our  joint 
effort  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Millet,  and  when 
this  was  successful,  Eaton  became,  far  more  than  I, 
intimate  with  the  master.  This  was  but  natural,  for 
Eaton,  as  much  as  any  man  I  have  ever  known,  had 
the  faculty  of  exciting  interest  and  making  friends. 
Absolutely  earnest  and  simple  in  his  affection  for  those 
for  whom  he  cared,  his  engaging  personality  provoked 
a  return  of  the  sentiment.  The  perplexities  of  a  dual 
view  of  any  question  never  troubled  him  and,  having, 
for  the  time  being,  given  his  allegiance  to  Millet's 
work,  to  the  exclusion  of  any  other  expression  in  art, 
he  assumed  in  all  simplicity  the  position  of  a  son  of 
the  house,  and  in  like  fashion  was  accepted  there. 
My  unquestioning  admiration  for  the  man  and  his 
work    appeared    to    Eaton    lukewarm    in    comparison 


112      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

with  his  own  and,  in  the  disputatious  arguments  that 
sweeten  the  Hves  of  sworn  friends  when  they  are  artists 
and  young,  he  scored  me  as  severely  as  though  I  were 
one  of  httle  faith. 

One  of  the  results  of  this  intimacy  with  Millet  was  a 
paper  published  a  few  years  before  Eaton's  death,  in 
the  "Century  Magazine,"  in  which  he  recalled  his 
souvenirs  of  Millet,  and  which  appears  to  me  a  most 
truthful  picture  of  the  man  as  we  knew  him.  Eaton 
had  certain  traits  in  common  with  Millet  in  his  work, 
though  he  lacked  not  only  the  large  robustness  of 
representation,  but  the  synthetic,  imaginative  quality 
of  the  Barbizon  painter.  The  immediate  effect  of 
Millet's  influence  was  not,  indeed,  happy  for  my 
friend,  who  for  some  years  fell  into  a  quasi-imitation  of 
the  master's  work  and  neglected  his  own  more  personal 
quality,  which  was  closely  allied  to  portraiture.  In 
fact,  Eaton  has  left  us  many  admirable  portraits,  where 
the  character  of  the  sitter  has  been  retained,  though  in 
every  case  a  strong  infusion  of  the  personal  view  of  the 
painter  can  be  felt.  In  works  such  as  these,  and  in  the 
subject-pictures  inspired  by  some  individual  character- 
istic of  the  model,  Eaton  was  a  painter  whose  too  early 
death  has  left  a  lamentable  void  in  the  ranks  of  our  art. 

It  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  the  more  one's 
admiration  goes  out  to  a  certain  master,  the  more 
dangerous  it  is  to  follow  in  his  footsteps,  and  this  is  the 
more  true  in  direct  degree  as  his  influence  may  be  apart 
from  the  contemporary  movement  of  art.  It  is  certain 
that  Millet,  Corot,  and  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  to  name 
three  of  the  most  individual  painters  of  our  time,  have 
had  no  direct  influence  on  any  individual  pupil  that  is 


PRE-STEVENSONIAN  DAYS  113 

apparent  in  the  continuity  of  modern  painting.  Lesser 
men  of  their  time  can  count  their  pupils  by  scores,  and 
point  not  only  to  a  continuance  of  their  influence,  but  in 
some  cases  these  pupils  have  carried  out  their  precepts 
to  a  progression  and  completeness  that  has  made  the 
pupils  masters  in  their  turn.  It  is  significant,  for  in- 
stance, that  Sargent  should  be  the  pupil  of  Duran,  and 
even  more  so  that  the  brilliant  technical  experiments 
and  the  acknowledged  mastery  of  Besnard  should  be 
engrafted  on  the  parent  trunk  of  Bouguerreau.  It  is 
equally  evident  that  the  influence  of  the  three  greater 
men  named  above,  and  the  masters  of  their  kind,  is 
not  lost,  but  it  works  in  the  progression  of  our  art  in  a 
guise  so  much  more  subtle  and  evasive  that  it  forbids 
direct  and  apparent  continuity. 

Arguments  hke  these  were  constant  in  the  days  when 
I  found  my  patience  taxed  to  see  my  comrade  Eaton 
painstakingly  make  a  drawing  of  a  pair  of  sabots 
which  he  w^ished  to  introduce  into  the  foreground  of  a 
picture  that  he  was  engaged  on.  As  the  sabots  were 
there  on  the  studio  floor,  it  appeared  to  me  so  much 
simpler  to  paint  them  in  directly  on  the  canvas,  but  no; 
Millet  painted  from  drawings  and,  more  royalist  than 
the  king,  my  friend  insisted  on  the  process  of  first 
making  a  drawing,  and  then  copying  from  it  to  intro- 
duce an  accessory  object  in  the  picture.  Eaton,  in  his 
simple  way,  was  hberally  endowed  with  obstinacy  and, 
gently  shaking  his  head,  proceeded  with  his  work, 
treating  me  as  one  of  the  profane  to  whom  the  inner 
sanctuary  was  impenetrable. 

He  had,  however,  a  hearty  respect  for  Gerome, 
agreeing  with  me  that,  as  a  master,  as  his  record  had 


114      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

already  shown,  he  was  capable  of  forming  pupils  whose 
qualities  differed  greatly  from  his  own.  Hence  my 
revenge  was  sweet  when  a  few  weeks  later  we  had 
returned  to  Paris  and  were  at  work  in  the  atelier. 

The  model  for  the  week  was  an  Italian  with  a  bushy 
head  of  jet-black,  lustreless  hair,  olive  skin,  and  marked 
features.  Eaton  had  made  his  drawing  on  the  canvas, 
had  "fixed"  the  charcoal  by  spraying  it  with  the  mixt- 
ure of  shellac  and  alcohol  used  for  that  purpose,  and 
then  had  given  way,  in  an  exaggeration  of  Millet's 
methods,  to  his  fancy  by  washing  in  the  color  trans- 
parently in  the  richest  hues.  The  man's  hair  became 
deep  purple,  his  tawny  skin  glowed  with  warm  tones, 
when  Gerome  quietly  stepped  behind  Eaton.  "Do 
you  see  the  colour  of  the  model  like  that  .f"'  queried  the 
master.  "N-no,  not  exactly,"  replied  Eaton,  alarmed, 
for  there  was  a  shade  of  the  severity  for  which  the 
master  was  noted  in  the  simple  question.  "I  am 
simply  preparing  it  in  this  way  to  paint  over  it  solidly." 
"Prepare  nothing,  paint,''  emphasized  Gerome  as  he 
passed  on.  "Low,"  said  Eaton  to  me  later  in  the  day, 
"perhaps  you  were  right  about  those  sabots."  But  all 
these  dissonances  of  opinion  between  us  never  brought 
a  cloud  over  the  serenity  of  our  friendship,  and  in  fact 
cemented  it  the  stronger.  Eaton  was  in  his  time  a 
more  convinced  Barbizonian  than  any  of  us,  making 
long  stations  there  in  midwinter,  and  painting  several 
pictures,  two  or  three  of  which  went  to  Canada,  where 
he  was  born,  though  his  family  were  originally  from 
one  of  our  Eastern  States. 

To  me  Eaton  was  a  large  part  of  Barbizon,  for  we 
were  both  united  by  a  common  admiration  for  Millet. 


PRE-STEVENSONIAN  DAYS  115 

It  is  strange  how  few  of  our  comrades  of  the  time  gave 
him  the  rank  now  accorded  him;  but  his  example 
was  so  influential  and  our  youthful  enthusiasm  so 
great  that  we  even  formed  the  project  that,  when  our 
schooldays  were  over,  after  a  short  visit  home,  we  would 
settle  in  the  village  for  the  rest  of  our  lives.  Destiny 
comes  in  rudely  to  shatter  all  such  plans,  but  there  will 
always  remain  a  glamour  like  that  of  a  first  love  over 
the  scene  of  such  dreams.  Day  and  night  that  first 
summer  found  us  afoot  in  the  forest,  and  even  more  on 
the  plain.  Once  I  remember  we  were  caught  there 
about  nightfall  in  the  autumn,  in  a  fog  so  dense  that  it 
was  only  by  walking  for  over  three  hours  in  diff^erent 
directions  that  by  chance  we  found  a  recognizable  land- 
mark, and  by  following  the  barrier  of  the  forest  finally 
arrived  at  the  village.  It  was  a  good  time,  and  though 
neither  Eaton  nor  myself  were  fated  to  live  in  Barbizon 
and  uphold  the  traditions  to  which  we  were  then 
wedded,  it  might  not  have  been  so  hard  a  lot  had  we 
held  steadfast  to  our  purpose.  For  of  those  of  our 
compatriot  painters  who  have  chosen  to  live  abroad, 
the  happiest  are  those  who  eschew  the  great  cities,  and 
in  some  quiet  hamlet,  or  by  successive  stages  in  modest 
inns  like  that  of  Siron  at  Barbizon,  pass  their  year  in 
the  country.  Life  is  cheaper,  work  in  the  constant 
presence  of  nature  is  more  continuous  and  sincere,  they 
are  nearer  the  people  of  the  country  than  in  the  cosmo- 
politan cities,  and  the  normal  sanity  of  an  artist's  life 
may  be  pursued  with  only  the  cares — which  are  suffi- 
ciently great — incident  to  his  work.  An  artist  of  this 
type,  unless  he  has  an  assured  income,  will  still  have 
the  preoccupation  of  producing  each  year  one  or  inore 


no      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

exhibition  pictures  of  sufficient  importance  to  sustain 
his  reputation,  and  incidentally  remind  the  public  and 
the  picture  dealers  of  his  continued  existence.  At 
times  also  he  must  abandon  the  country,  and  with  his 
wares  pursue  this,  last  elusive  gentleman  in  order  that 
he  may  live,  for  continuous  existence  at  the  expense  of 
long-suffering  innkeepers  is  not  possible — was  not  even 
in  the  time  of  which  I  write;  and  I  believe  that  the 
race  of  auhergistes  has  become  more  sophisticated  in 
these  degenerate  days.  Still,  under  these  conditions  a 
man  may  pursue  his  life-work  and  arrive  somewhat 
nearer  the  millennium  pictured  by  Kipling,  of  painting 
things  as  he  sees  them  for  the  god  of  the  things  as  they 
are,  than  is  possible  otherwise  and  otherwhere  in  the 
prosecution  of  our  ancient  craft. 

Our  artists  abroad  in  the  cities  of  the  Old  World  ap- 
pear to  my  view  less  fortunate.  To  speak  of  Paris, 
which  I  know  best,  though  we  have  a  sprinkling  of  our 
men  in  other  capitals  of  Europe,  the  artist  of  a  foreign 
nationality  is  treated  with  entire  cordiality  and  great 
politeness,  but  always  as  a  stranger.  The  exhibitions 
are  open,  and  honours,  when  the  native  exhibitors  are 
fully  satisfied,  are  freely  accorded  him.  A  man  of 
broad  sympathies,  as  the  history  of  art  in  the  past  has 
proven  the  typical  artist  to  be,  can  hardly  pass  his  life 
in  any  environment  on  the  footing  of  an  honoured  guest. 
Sooner  or  later  he  must  pass  from  the  seclusion  of  his 
studio  into  the  broader  world  and,  if  only  in  the  general 
interests  of  his  own  art,  desire  to  be  part  of  and  have  a 
voice  in  its  evolution.  Here  he  will  find  his  way  barred. 
The  struggle  for  life  is  far  more  intense  throughout  the 
Old  World  than  in  our  newer  civilization — the  ramifica- 


PRE-STEVENSONIAN  DAYS  117 

tions  of  this  primal  necessity  penetrate  every  function 
of  life — and  the  whole  social  organization  of  Europe  is 
permeated  with  a  selfish,  but  absolutely  necessary,  in- 
tention to  retain  all  the  real  prizes  of  any  career  for  the 
benefit  of  natives.  What  may  be  termed  the  politics 
of  art  in  Europe  are,  by  the  hands  of  an  oligarchy, 
organized  more  cunningly,  and  held  within  circum- 
scribed limits  more  firmly,  than  any  system  of  govern- 
ment known  to  me.  Now,  while  it  may  be  conceded 
that  the  one  and  highest  purpose  of  an  artist's  life 
should  be  to  produce  good  work  and  to  keep  as  free  as 
possible  from  all  extraneous  complications,  this  ideal 
condition  is  as  impossible  in  the  craft  of  the  painter  as 
it  is  in  any  other  vocation  of  man.  As  the  greatest 
artists  of  the  past,  as  Raphael,  Rubens,  and  Velasquez, 
were  men  of  the  world  about  them,  so  is  it  the  birthright 
of  the  modern  artist  to  take  his  place  in  his  environ- 
ment and  his  share  in  the  shaping  of  events. 

The  American  artist  abroad,  however,  would  be  ill- 
advised  if  he  openly  demanded  this  right  in  the  republic 
of  arts,  and  consequently  such  little  influence  as  he  is 
permitted  to  exercise  is  by  favour  only,  and  too  often  by 
favour  purchased  at  too  dear  a  cost.  Therefore  the 
privilege  to  live  in  an  atmosphere  where  art,  where  the 
continuous  effort  at  perfection  of  technical  expression, 
is  recognized  and  honoured,  is  the  chief  recompense 
which  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  American  artist  in  Europe; 
and  is  one  which,  from  the  point  of  view  of  one  who 
loves  his  craft,  is  by  no  means  to  be  disdained.  The 
men  of  my  generation,  who  from  circumstance  or 
choice  have  been  called  upon  to  work  at  home,  have 
had   by  way  of  compensation   an    abiding  sense   that 


118      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

they  were  aiding  to  implant  a  standard  of  art  hitherto 
unknown  upon  these  shores.  This  our  exiled  brethren 
abroad  have  missed,  and  to  this  foundation  of  a  future 
American  school  of  art  the  humblest  worker  in  our 
ranks  here  at  home  has  been  privileged  to  do  his  part. 
The  edifice  is  far  from  complete,  and  the  task  of  the 
men  who  have  worked  so  far,  must  go  on  until 
others  take  our  place  and  our  work,  even  as  we  have 
but  continued  what  the  "Hudson  River  School"  had 
begun;  but  I  fancy  that  whatever  our  individual 
production  may  have  lost,  by  enforced  attention  to  the 
administrative  and  executive  interests  of  art  in  our 
country  is  more  than  gained  by  the  progress  which  we 
have  been  able  to  witness  and  to  aid. 

This  digression  is  a  far  call  to  the  dreams  of  two 
youths  at  Barbizon  so  long  ago,  but  as  the  memory  of 
Eaton  and  his  yeoman's  work  in  the  foundation  of  the 
Society  of  American  Artists  arises,  its  relevance  may 
be  conceded. 

In  my  excursions  over  this  pleasant  country  I  had 
one  trifling  adventure,  which  has  been  fixed  in  my 
memory  as  the  only  instance  in  well-policed  France 
where  I  have  felt  myself  in  danger.  Late  in  the  autumn, 
returning  from  a  journey  to  Paris,  I  had  reached  Melun 
too  late  for  Lejosne's  yellow  'bus  on  its  trip  to  Barbizon. 
The  distance  is  about  seven  miles,  and  I  set  out  to  foot 
it  gayly  through  the  gathering  dusk.  The  road  was 
smooth,  and  I  had  progressed  about  two  miles  outside 
the  town  of  Melun,  when  I  entered  a  little  wood.  Walk- 
ing care  free  but  abstracted  in  my  thoughts,  I  was 
suddenly  conscious,  as  I  emerged  again  into  the  twilight, 
of  a  figure  outlined  against  the  sky,  for  the  road  here 


'"^ 


"T? 


Door  ui  'J'licodoic  l\ou>seau's  House,  liarlii/oii,  1875 
From  a  painting  by  W.  H.  Low 


PRE-STEVENSONIAN   DAYS  119 

mounted  sharply,  which  appeared  to  me  about  the  size 
of  the  statue  of  Liberty  that  graces  our  harbour  in 
New  York.  The  arms  were  uphfted,  brandishing  a 
long  bludgeon,  and  the  voice  of  the  creature  demanded 
sternly:  "Qui  va  la  ?"  In  my  surprise  and  fright  my 
mind  calculated  the  chances  of  escape  by  retreat,  but 
the  thought  of  pursuit  inspired  me  to  rush  forward,  in 
order  that  at  close  quarters  the  long  club  might  be  less 
effective.  At  the  same  time,  not  to  be  less  military 
than  my  interlocutor,  I  cried,  "Un  ami." 

On  close  approach  I  found  a  man,  taller  than  myself 
but  less  gigantic  than  he  at  first  appeared,  dressed  in 
the  garb  of  a  peasant.  At  first  it  was  difficult  to  decide 
if  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  madman  or  a  drunkard, 
but,  somewhat  to  my  relief,  he  proved  the  latter.  My 
foreign  accent  was  near  to  be  my  undoing,  for  the 
Franco-Prussian  war  had  swept  over  this  country  but 
three  years  before,  and  it  was  some  time  before  my  fer- 
vently expressed  desire  that  the  Republic  might  pros- 
per, and  my  affirmation  that  I  was  not  a  Prussian, 
calmed  his  suspicion. 

At  last  he  lowered  his  stick,  which  was  quite  six  feet 
in  length,  and  said  grumblingly:  "Lucky  for  you, 
you're  not  a  Prussian,  for  I've  sworn  to  kill  every 
Prussian  I  see.  Where  are  you  going — Barbizon — 
well,  we  will  walk  together,  for  I  go  to  Chailly."  And 
so  side  by  side  we  set  out,  my  new  comrade  lurching 
occasionally,  but  on  the  whole  quite  able  to  walk.  He 
had  been  at  a  wedding  in  a  neighbouring  village,  and 
"See,"  said  he,  "I've  brought  away  some  of  the  prov- 
ender." From  somewhere  in  the  recesses  of  his 
blouse  he  brought  out  a  sticky  mass  of  pate,  which  he 


120       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

urged  me  to  taste.  Angered  at  my  refusal,  he  once 
more  returned  to  his  suspicion  that  I  was  of  the  hated 
race  from  across  the  Hne.  Then  he  suddenly  broke 
out:  "I  can  see  them  yet,  the  Uhlans  that  came  to 
Chailly.  One  of  them  took  my  baby  from  the  cradle, 
put  him  on  the  table,  and  laid  down  in  his  place.  I 
can  see  his  boots  dangling  over  the  end  of  the  cradle 
yet.  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  when  shall  I  kill  them  all." 
Thus  he  maundered  on  while  I,  as  we  went  by  a  heap 
of  stones  placed  by  the  wayside,  as  occurs  from  place 
to  place  to  repair  the  road,  pretended  to  stumble  and 
picked  up  as  large  a  stone  as  I  could  rapidly  select. 
This  I  carried  hid  in  the  folds  of  a  light  overcoat  that  I 
wore,  determined  to  defend  myself  if  his  humour  be- 
came too  bellicose.  Fortunately  it  changed,  and  he 
obligingly  offered  to  teach  me  the  "Marseillaise,"  in 
which  noble  chant  our  two  voices  were  upraised  for 
some  considerable  distance  on  the  quiet  road  which 
now  ran  in  the  open  between  broad  fields. 

About  midway  between  Melun  and  Chailly,  which  is 
the  village  on  the  plain  preceding  Barbizon,  there  was 
built,  I  know  not  how  long  ago,  but  some  time  about 
the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century,  a  low,  circular 
structure  standing  detached  inside  an  enclosed  space. 
This  is  the  tomb  of  an  eccentric  nobleman,  who  was 
refused  sepulchre  in  consecrated  ground,  as  in  his  will 
he  decreed  that  he  should  be  buried  surrounded  by  all 
the  horses  and  hounds  who  were  his  companions  of 
the  chase.  The  slaughter  of  these  faithful  beasts  was 
accomplished,  the  behest  of  their  master  carried  out, 
and  the  tomb  stands  stark  upon  a  little  hillock,  with 
the  lodge  of  a  keeper  at  the  gate  of  the  enclosure. 


PRE-STEVENSONIAN  DAYS  121 

Approaching  this  on  our  way  my  drunken  companion 
asked  me  if  I  had  visited  the  tomb,  and,  on  my  evasive 
answer,  protested  that  as  a  stranger  I  should  not 
neglect  one  of  the  principal  objects  of  interest  in  the 
country,  especially  as  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  in  the 
company  of  an  intimate  friend  of  the  keeper.  There- 
upon he  rang  the  bell  at  the  gate  long  and  loudly  with- 
out eliciting  any  response,  to  my  great  relief.  There 
was  light,  however,  in  the  window  of  the  lodge  which 
looked  upon  the  road,  and  to  this  he  addressed  him- 
self, bawling  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  throwing  small 
pebbles  at  the  glass  to  attract  attention.  At  last  the 
window  was  thrown  back  and  a  woman  appeared  in 
the  opening,  to  w^hom  my  heart  at  once  went  out  in 
sympathy,  so  eloquently,  and  with  such  command  of 
vituperation,  did  she  express  an  opinion  of  the  com- 
pany I  was  keeping,  an  opinion  in  which  I  shared. 
She  appeared  to  know  my  companion  well  and  his 
character  even  better,  but  she  was,  fortunately,  obdu- 
rate to  his  expostulations,  and,  as  she  finally  closed  the 
window,  nothing  was  left  to  us  but  to  resume  our  march. 

Various  cynical  remarks  about  the  lodge-keeper's 
wife  and  her  sex  in  general,  from  which  he  appeared  to 
have  greatly  suffered,  brought  us  to  within  a  short  dis- 
tance of  Chailly,  when  suddenly  my  companion  said, 
**We  are  tired,  let  us  lie  down  and  sleep."  I  protested 
in  vain  that  my  friends  in  Barbizon  awaited  me,  that  I 
would  lose  my  dinner  by  delay;  it  w^as  ill  arguing  with 
a  man  who  was  ugly  drunk.  He  pointed  out  a  place 
by  the  wayside  with  the  end  of  his  great  stick,  and 
fairly  commanded  me  to  lie  down. 

This  I  finally  did,  and  he  stretched  himself  on  the 


122      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

sward  a  few  steps  distant.  It  was  bright  moonlight 
and,  with  the  artist's  eye  that  instinctively  works  even 
when  the  mind  is  otherwise  occupied,  I  can  remember 
the  silhouette  of  some  strawricks  in  the  field  before 
me  as  I  fretted  at  the  mingled  danger  and  absurdity  of 
my  position. 

Suddenly  a  welcome  sound  arose  above  the  stillness 
of  the  fields.  My  companion  was  asleep  and  snoring 
heavily.  With  much  caution  I  rose  to  my  feet,  and  as 
silently  as  possible  stole  away,  until  a  sufficient  distance 
was  attained,  when  I  increased  my  pace,  and  soon  in 
Siron's  dining-room,  over  a  late  dinner,  comforted  by 
the  lights  and  the  presence  of  friends,  I  was  recounting 
my  adventure. 


In  the  forest  depths — Fontainebleau 
Sketch  in  oils  by  Will  H.  Low 


X 

THE  ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON 

THE  change  in  the  character  of  Ufe  that  Eaton  and 
I  led  in  Barbizon  was  sufficiently  marked  when, 
in  1875,  the  first  considerable  contingent  of 
English-speaking  students  came  to  the  village.  Up  to 
that  time  we  were  always  together  and  very  much  apart 
from  the  life  of  the  inn.  We  were  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  those  with  whom  we  shared  the  really  excellent 
fare  and  the  amusing  polyglot  conversation  of  the 
table  d'hotcy  but  we  were  more  interested  in  the  friends 
we  had  made  in  the  village,  and  in  making  a  preliminary 
trial  of  the  life  which,  with  all  the  fervour  of  good  inten- 
tions, we  had  projected  for  our  future.  We  were  also 
perhaps  a  little  proud  of  our  admission  into  the  inner 
circle  of  the  permanent  residents  of  the  village,  and 
consequently,  with  the  enthusiasm  of  new  converts, 
looked  askance  at  the  "  hotel  crowd,"  as  we  had  dubbed 
the  temporary  guests  of  the  inn. 

Our  work  was,  of  course,  our  chief  concern,  and  I 
doubt  if  in  any  part  of  the  world  so  spacious  and 
gracious  a  working-place  has  been  provided  for  the 
artist  as  in  and  around  the  borders  of  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau.  This  sentiment  of  nature's  profusion, 
of  what  I  may  call  her  availability  for  the  painter's 
purpose,  is  not  perhaps  strongly  felt  at  first  view;  for, 
though  there  are  many  portions  of  the  forest  quite  ob- 
viously   picturesque,    presenting    compositions    ready 

123 


124      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

made  to  the  painter's  hand,  the  outlying  country  on 
every  side  consists  of  great  plains,  every  inch  of  their 
surface  carefully  tilled,  save  for  the  roads  which  traverse 
them,  that  are  quite  w^ithout  striking  features.  But  the 
w^orld  has  long  ago  accepted  the  subtle  Italian  dictum, 
that  the  sympathetic  human  countenance  has  more 
lasting  charm  than  one  that  is  strikingly  beautiful,  and 
the  country  round  about,  and  the  forest  Itself,  are 
simpatica  to  the  last  degree. 

Man  has  been  constantly  at  work  there,  and  there 
are  vestiges  of  his  presence  since  the  tenth  century;  but 
he  has  scrupulously  respected  nature;  and  the  succeed- 
ing generations  of  painters  who  have  worked  there  have 
lived  in  an  enchanted  land. 

Of  all  the  vocations  of  man,  surely  few  afford  greater 
joy  to  the  practitioner  than  the  work  of  the  painter  out- 
of-doors.  He  stands  hand  in  hand  with  nature,  she — 
a  jealous  mistress — now  beams  smilingly  on  her  suitor, 
or  anon  she  frowns;  but  never  for  a  moment  permits 
him  to  forget  her.  He,  with  all  the  ardour  of  the  male, 
and  with  something  of  his  mastery,  bends  zealously  to 
her  pursuit,  and  through  her  changing  moods  retains 
the  memory  of  the  special  charm  which  first  attracted 
him;  and  which,  he  comforts  himself,  assures  his 
ultimate  victory.  Buoyed  by  this  hope,  breathed  upon 
by  soft  airs  or  conscious  of  his  force  as  he  resists  the 
buffets  of  the  storm,  there  are  few  healthier,  saner  hours 
vouchsafed  to  the  life  of  man  than  those  when  in  the 
open  he  essays  to  portray  the  face  of  nature.  It  mat- 
ters little  that  his  success  may  not  be  palpable,  that  to 
others  the  work  achieved  may  suggest  but  scantily  all 
that  he  saw,  or  that  to  himself,  in  comparison  with  the 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   125 

vivid  impression  of  nature  still  before  his  eyes,  the 
failure  of  his  endeavour  may  seem  complete — let  him 
take  the  advice,  v^hich  he  will  find  to  be  that  of  all 
painters  who  have  thus  worked  out  of  doors,  and  never 
destroy  a  study  from  nature.  In  after  years,  with  the 
memory  of  the  scene  that  he  endeavoured  to  depict 
dimmed  by  the  mists  of  time,  he  shall  perchance  look 
upon  his  despised  study  and,  through  its  darkened 
tones,  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  in  the  Bas  Breau  or 
upon  the  plain,  or  the  sharp  storm  when,  crouching  in 
the  shelter  of  a  wheatrick,  he  dashed  a  few  rapid  colour 
notes  on  his  canvas,  will  live  again  for  him,  and, 
happily,  through  revived  memory,  aided  by  enlarged 
experience,  may  be  the  foundation  of  a  definite  achieve- 
ment. 

Little  of  this  was  formulated  in  our  minds  in  those 
Arcadian  days  of  our  youth,  but  the  daily  incidents  of 
our  pleasant  industry  sufficed  to  keep  our  thoughts  and 
our  hands  busy.  In  the  early  morning,  through  the 
village  street,  w^th  the  incense  of  the  wood  fires  rising 
straight  in  the  clear,  and  the  no  less  aromatic  though 
more  prosaic  perfume  of  the  soup  of  Jacques  Bonhomme 
permeating  the  air,  we  w^ere  astir.  Sometimes  we  would 
issue  from  the  village  to  the  plain,  the  matin  sun  sharply 
defining  the  crest  of  the  furrows,  or,  at  another  season, 
gilding  the  refined  gold  of  the  swaying  wheat.  Ah! 
that  plain,  what  lessons  of  form  it  has  taught  its  earnest 
students  among  the  painters  who  have  worked  over  its 
surface  like  so  many  patient  husbandmen.  For  Millet 
who,  as  I  have  described,  did  not  scruple  to  draw  upon 
his  store  of  knowledge  to  construct  a  human  figure, 
has  testified — by  many  careful  drawings  that  are  almost 


126      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

like  the  measured  work  of  a  topographical  engineer — 
that  memory  is  powerless  to  depict  the  subtle  accidents 
of  form,  the  delicate  gradations  of  its  surface.  Like  a 
loved  countenance  on  which  life  has  written  its  history, 
so  might  the  story  of  many  generations  be  read  in  the 
various  shaped  and  vari-coloured  fields,  and  the  inter- 
lacing paths  that  ran  hither  and  yon,  defining  plots  of 
ground  for  which  the  energies  of  a  family  had  toiled 
early  and  late.  To  the  casual  passer-by  the  plain  may 
be  featureless  and  devoid  of  interest,  but  it  has  sufficed 
for  noble  masterpieces  of  Millet  and  Rousseau,  and 
none  have  ever  studied  it  sincerely  without  finding  it, 
under  the  overarching  sky,  a  fitting  scene  for  the  twelve 
acts  of  the  drama  of  the  sylvan  year. 

Other  days  took  the  painter  to  the  forest,  entering  by 
the  Alley  of  the  Cows — VAllee  des  Vaches — in  which 
ends  the  village  street.  His  footsteps  rang  on  the  hard 
surface  of  the  road,  for  there  is  no  spot  within  the  sixty 
miles  of  the  forest's  circumference  where  macadamized 
roads  do  not  penetrate;  though  one  may  plunge  from 
the  highway  into  the  woods,  and  in  a  few  minutes  be 
hidden  from  all  evidence  of  the  sight  of  man.  Here 
in  the  depths,  at  spacious  intervals,  one  may  find  all 
varieties  of  forest  scenery.  Continuous  care  since  the 
time  of  the  sainted  King  Louis,  by  plantation  and  wise 
forestry,  has  kept  this  great  tract  to  the  semblance  of 
a  purely  natural  forest.  There  is  naught  of  the  wooded 
park,  save  in  its  very  centre,  where,  adjoining  the 
chateau  in  the  bright  httle  town  lying  in  the  middle  of 
the  forest,  there  is  a  stately  park,  smaller,  but  to  my 
mind  more  beautiful,  than  that  of  Versailles;  a  fit 
setting   for   the   noble   chateau   which,   since   Francois 


t- 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   127 

premier,  each  succeeding  king  of  France  has  deHghted 
in  embellishing. 

The  stillness  of  the  morning,  the  spicy  odours  of  the 
trees,  welcomed  the  matinal  painter,  and  a  brisk  walk 
never  so  long  as  to  induce  fatigue,  for  there  were  abun- 
dant motifs  near  at  hand,  brought  him  to  his  work. 
The  folding  easel  was  soon  in  place,  the  canvas  placed 
upon  it,  the  clear  and  pure  colours,  squeezed  from 
their  tubes,  duly  arranged  upon  the  palette,  and  work 
began.  Often,  if  the  painting  ground  was  some  dis- 
tance from  the  inn,  a  lunch  would  be  carried,  and  a 
second  canvas  for  an  afternoon  effect  would  be  ready, 
when,  after  the  lunch  disposed  of  and  sundry  cigarettes 
burned  on  the  altar  of  the  arts,  the  industrious  painter 
resumed  his  task.  Canvases  of  large  dimensions,  too 
large  to  be  carried  to  and  fro,  would  be  firmly  fixed  to 
upright  stakes  driven  in  the  ground  and,  with  the  ab- 
sorbent back  of  the  canvas  protected  from  the  weather 
by  oil  cloth,  would  be  left  out  of  doors  for  weeks  until 
the  painting  was  completed. 

No  other  protection  was  necessary;  the  painted  sur- 
face of  the  canvas  was  practically  impervious  to  rain, 
and  the  chance  faggot  gatherers,  the  forest  guards,  or 
even  errant  children  passing  that  way  had,  one  and 
all,  too  hearty  respect  for  the  arts  to  inflict  the  slightest 
damage  on  a  painting  in  progress,  thus  left  at  their 
mercy.  Many  a  picture  in  the  museums  to-day,  pro- 
tected by  frame  and  glass,  and  the  temperature  of  the 
gallery  where  it  hangs  carefully  regulated,  was  thus 
born  gipsy-like  in  the  woods,  where  the  shafts  of  sun- 
light by  day  and  the  stars  by  night  watched  curiously 
the  progress  of  its  growth. 


128      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

These  large  works  were  the  exception,  however,  and 
were  less  of  the  order  of  studies  than  pictures  thus  pro- 
duced for  the  Salon,  and  for  the  most  part  we  carried 
our  virgin  canvas  to  the  wood,  and  at  night  brought  it 
home  to  the  impromptu  critical  gathering  in  the  court- 
yard at  Siron's;  often  to  regret  that  the  covering  of  its 
surface  had  effectually  deprived  the  world  of  the  poten- 
tial masterpiece,  with  which  every  blank  canvas  may, 
perchance,  be  pregnant. 

The  quitting  hour  was  a  fitting  crown  to  a  day  well 
spent.  When  the  shadows  grew  long,  when  the  sunlight 
in  the  distance,  which  had  effectually  baffled  your 
brush  for  a  tantalizing  period,  had  finally  faded,  the 
time  to  buckle  up  your  traps,  strap  your  knapsack  to 
your  back,  and  turn  your  face  homeward  had  come. 
In  the  midsummer  the  golden  light  in  the  tree-tops  sent 
you  on  your  way  through  the  cool  shadow^  below  as 
though  your  head  were  a  halo,  and  it  was  yet  day  when, 
emerging  from  the  forest,  the  pointed  iron  of  the  alpen- 
stock to  which  the  artist  affixes  his  sketching-umbrella 
rang  on  the  stone  pavement  of  Siron's  courtyard,  and 
vermouth  and  friendly  criticism  awaited  you.  Later 
in  the  autumn,  the  evening  settled  chill,  you  stretched 
yourself  a  little  stiffly  as  you  ceased  your  work,  glad  at 
the  prospect  of  the  brisk  walk.  By  the  time  your 
various  paraphernalia  of  the  artist  were  strapped  to- 
gether it  was  dusk,  and,  holding  your  newly  painted 
canvas  gingerly  from  your  person,  your  footsteps  echoed 
loudly  as  you  gained  the  highway  through  the  woods. 
You  walked  in  a  Gothic  cathedral,  the  columnar  trunks 
and  the  interfoliation  of  the  branches  standing  dark 
against  the  crimson  and  golden  stain  of  the  windows  of 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   129 

the  sky.  It  was  glorious,  though  sometimes  a  trifle 
weird,  as  far  off  in  the  distance  you  might  hear  the 
roaring  of  a  wild  boar  or  the  booming  of  the  deer;  and 
a  sense  of  sohtude  rose  from  the  rhythmic  beat  of  your 
feet.  The  lights  would  be  lit  in  the  inn  on  your  ar- 
rival, the  painters,  growing  fewer  in  number  as  the 
season  advanced,  would  be  gathered  in  the  high  room, 
panelled  with  sketches,  where  we  dined;  where  the 
table,  already  set,  awaited,  and  a  fire  crackeled  on  the 
hearth  in  the  corner.  Here,  by  the  light  of  a  candle 
held  close  to  your  sketch,  your  work  received  the 
approbation  or  frank  disapproval  of  your  friends,  each 
on  his  arrival  running  the  gauntlet  of  criticism,  and 
there  ensued  a  discussion  on  art  in  general,  accom- 
panied by  becoming  personalities,  until  it  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance  of  Siron,  bearing  high  a  huge 
and  smoking  soup-tureen,  and  crying,  "a  table,  Mes- 
sieurs, a  table.''  We  dearly  loved  the  general  discus- 
sion of  art  in  those  days,  when  we  frankly  talked  "shop" 
on  all  occasions — and  some  of  us  have  not  outgrown 
the  habit.  On  rainy  days,  or  as  the  mood  seized  us, 
we  worked  in  our  studios  or  in  the  houses  of  the  peas- 
ants. In  these  last,  one  was  very  close  to  the  people, 
in  more  senses  than  one,  but  I  have  always  been  grate- 
ful for  the  experience.  It  gave  me  an  insight  which 
comparatively  few  of  our  compatriots  have  had,  of  the 
underlying  force  of  the  French  nation;  of  the  typical 
self-respect,  accepting,  not  the  superiority  of  one  social 
station  above  another,  but  the  simple  difference  be- 
tween his  own  position  and  that  of  others;  with  the 
belief  that  each  offers  certain  and  perhaps  equal  advan- 
tages, which  is  a  strong  characteristic  of  the  peasant. 


130      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

The  servility  so  often  encountered  in  England,  or  the 
insistent  assertion  of  equality  met  with  here,  is  unknown 
to  Jacques  Bonhomme.  You  come  from  a  far  country, 
you  wear  finer  linen  and  better  clothes  than  he,  but  that 
is  a  habit,  as  you,  being  a  foreigner,  might  wear  a  ring 
in  your  nose;  and  you  earn  your  living  by  the  practice 
of  a  trade  which  he  respects,  but  does  not  envy  you. 
Quite  as  evidently,  to  his  mind,  his  acre  of  land  has  for 
him  more  value  than  anything  you  may  possess;  and 
one  may  meet,  in  what  I  fear  should  be  called  the  hovel 
of  a  French  peasant,  more  truly  the  spirit  of  equality, 
and  certainly  more  contentment  with  his  lot,  than  we  can 
find  among  the  tillers  of  the  soil  in  our  own  prosperous 
republic.  In  many  ways  the  peasant  lacks  the  super- 
ficial refinement,  and  in  almost  every  case  the  quasi- 
education,  with  which  our  common  schools  have 
veneered  our  masses;  but,  in  his  speech  at  least,  la 
poUtesse  Frariraise  is  with  him  no  vain  word,  as  M. 
Anatole  France  pointed  out  many  years  ago  in  his  con- 
vincing argument  against  the  language  which  Zola 
permitted  his  peasants  to  use  in  "La  Terre."  In  this 
land  of  plenty  we  have  as  yet  no  conditions  that  parallel 
those  that  confront  the  rural  populations  of  France; 
but  in  this  environment  the  peasant  has  wrested  com- 
parative comfort,  self-support,  and  cheerful  content- 
ment, under  conditions  which  we,  in  turn,  must  respect, 
though  we  may  not  envy  them. 

Viewed  in  the  light  of  what  Eaton  was  able  to  do  in 
the  furtherance  of  our  art  at  home,  a  service  by  no 
means  to  be  measured  by  the  comparatively  few  por- 
traits and  pictures  which  he  painted;  for  the  uncounted 
work  he  did  as  a  teacher,  and  in  the  betterment  of  art 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   131 

conditions  by  his  share  in  the  foundation  and  support 
of  the  Society  of  American  Artists  must  be  taken  into 
consideration,  fate  ordained  wisely  in  shattering  his 
early  dream  of  carrying  out  his  art  Hfe  in  Barbizon. 
Our  project  was,  however,  seriously  considered,  and  as 
we  had  both  had  at  a  very  early  age  to  confront  the 
problem  of  self-support  by  our  immature  art,  it  was 
with  some  knowledge  of  the  probable  conditions  of  the 
life  we  planned  that  our  resolution  was  entertained. 
My  early  desertion  of  the  atelier  Gerome  and  my  rare 
appearance  at  the  restaurant  Picot,  on  the  corner  of  the 
Rue  de  Seine  and  the  Rue  Jacob,  which  was  the  gen- 
eral meeting-place  of  the  comparatively  few  American 
students  then  in  Paris,  made  my  meetings  with  Eaton 
in  the  city  less  frequent,  and  the  intimacy  established 
with  Bob  Stevenson  in  the  autumn  of '74,  together  with 
the  influx  of  Scotch  and  Enghsh  friends  at  Barbizon 
the  following  year,  estabhshed  conditions  where  I  saw 
less  of  the  residents  of  the  village,  with  whom  Eaton 
continued  his  relations,  especially  with  Millet,  in  the 
months  before  his  last  illness. 

The  Anglo-Saxons,  with  the  dominant  characteris- 
tics of  our  race,  at  once  stood  apart  from  the  Hfe  long 
established  in  the  village  and  at  the  inn.  They  were 
not  very  numerous,  though  their  presence  attracted  for 
short  periods  numbers  of  English-speaking  additions 
to  the  polyglot  table  d'hote — men  whose  stay  was  so 
short,  and  whose  admission  to  our  inner  circle  was  so 
completely  brief,  when  not  denied,  that  even  the  mem- 
ory of  their  names  has  gone  from  me.  But  for  what 
we  lacked  in  numbers,  the  determination  to  profit  by 
our  pleasant  surroundings  and  to  establish  a  republic 


132      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

of  youth  answerable  only  to  the  laws  of  our  own  enact- 
ment, more  than  made  up.  The  Frenchmen,  natural- 
ly, and  the  various  Belgians,  Swedes,  and  Hungarians, 
by  common  consent,  had  the  customs  and  followed  the 
traditional  life  that  I  fancy  had  been  led  since  Barbizon 
became  an  artistic  resort.  The  Anglo-Saxons,  among 
whom  I  soon  took  my  place,  were  grouped  about  one 
end  of  the  long  table,  communicated  with  each  other  in 
their  own  language  instead  of  that  of  the  country  in 
general  use  among  the  poly-national  majority  present, 
and  conducted  themselves  with  a  freedom  unattainable 
to  them  in  their  native  land.  Not  in  any  willingly 
offensive  sense,  of  course,  for  we  were  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  all  present,  and  the  youth  and  high  spirits 
of  a  number  of  our  party  made  the  more  serious  end 
of  the  table  slightly  envious  of  the  joy  which  reigned 
among  us — necessitating  frequent  translations  of  the 
stories  told  and  the  witticisms  bandied  about  in  our 
circle,  which,  I  am  bound  to  say,  often  excited  less 
hilarity  when  translated  than  their  fond  authors  ex- 
pected. Perhaps  the  most  striking  feature  inaugurated 
was  the  practice  of  physical  effort  for  its  own  sake — 
for  exercise.  The  Frenchman  of  that  time  got  along 
very  well  without  other  exercise  than  that  which  was 
incident  to  his  activity  in  carrying  out  whatever  work 
he  might  be  engaged  in.  Our  friends  at  Siron's  of  other 
nationalities  therefore  looked  on  gravely  when  the 
little  band  of  Jjjglats,  for  we  were  all  comprised  in 
that  generic  term,  scaled  garden  walls  in  order  to 
limber  their  muscles,  or  some  of  them,  bearded  men, 
gave  themselves  up  to  the  childish  game  of  leap-frog  in 
the  court.     I  must  make  the  autobiographical  confes- 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   133 

sion  here  that  I  secretly  sympathized  with  the  Gallic 
distaste  for  what  they  denominated  ''les  sports^'  and 
took  comparatively  little  part  in  the  various  foot  races, 
wresthng  bouts,  and  other  forms  of  Anglo-Saxon  health- 
seeking  pleasures  to  which  they  were  addicted.  Still, 
I  remember  that  I  was  the  only  one  to  take  up  the  chal- 
lenge when  on  one  occasion,  late  after  dinner.  Bob 
Stevenson  volunteered  the  opinion  that  we  were  one 
and  all  "stale"  from  a  period  of  too  great  attention  to 
our  work,  and  proposed  a  walk  through  the  forest  to 
the  town  of  Fontainebleau  and  back,  a  distance  of 
about  sixteen  miles.  We  set  out  about  ten  o'clock.  It 
was,  in  the  beautiful  phrase  which  Louis  long  afterward 
set  in  his  constellation  of  style,  "a  wonderful  clear  night 
of  stars,"  and  as  we  entered  the  broad  avenue  of  the 
forest  the  road  was  dimly  visible,  flanked  on  either  side 
by  great  trees.  We  did  not  hasten  our  pace,  already 
forgetting  in  the  beauty  of  the  night  the  hygienic  pur- 
pose of  our  undertaking.  We  indulged  in  improving 
conversation,  a  benefit  never  absent  when  Bob  was 
present,  and  were  glad  that  we  w^ere  alive — and  young. 
In  some  of  the  reaches  of  the  forest  the  trees  joined 
thickly  overhead,  and  there  we  walked  in  total  dark- 
ness in  a  velvet-like  •environment  of  solid  black,  our 
glowing  cigarettes  gleaming  like  fireflies  in  the  gloom. 
By  daylight  we  both  knew  our  way,  having  in  fact  at 
our  command  more  than  one  route  to  choose  from; 
but,  forgetting  in  our  talk  to  note  our  landmarks,  we 
found  ourselves  at  one  time  quite  off"  the  beaten  track, 
until,  by  lighting  matches  when  we  came  to  a  sign-post 
in  the  woods,  we  read  our  direction  and  regained  the 
grand    route.     It    was    long    past    midnight    when    we 


134      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

reached  the  town  of  Fontainebleau,  and  all  that  virtuous 
city  had  been  long  wrapped  in  slumber.  Somehow  our 
enthusiasm  had  lagged,  and  by  mutual  consent  we, 
with  great  difficulty,  awoke  a  hostlery  which  we  knew, 
and,  when  a  servant  with  a  lantern  finally  appeared,  the 
"  two  crazy  Englishmen,"  as  I  have  no  doubt  he  thought, 
were  shown  to  bed.  We  ordered  our  coffee  at  day- 
break and  left  the  place,  having  seen  no  other  human 
being  about  the  inn  than  the  man  who  had  admitted  us 
a  few  hours  before.  The  return  home,  with  the  dew 
glinting  from  the  leaves  in  the  sunlight  and  the  re- 
freshing odour  of  the  reawakened  forest,  amply  repaid 
us  for  our  scanty  share  of  sleep;  and,  with  a  virtuous 
sense  of  exhilaration,  we  burst  in  on  our  comrades  at 
Siron's,  about  the  time  that  they  were  taking  their 
morning  coffee. 

The  love  of  exercise — the,  to  me,  quite  reprehensible 
denial  that  the  quiet  prosecution  of  an  artist's  work 
should  not  suffice  for  the  gratification  of  his  every 
sense — was  at  the  root  of  the  undoing  of  Barbizon,  and 
its  dethronement — with  this  coterie  of  friends — as  the 
one  and  only  place  where  life,  as  we  conceived  it,  was 
possible. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  The  weather  had  been 
bad,  every  one  had  been  forced  to  give  up  work  out  of 
doors,  and  as  few  were  situated  as  I,  who  had  retained 
my  little  studio  down  the  street  where  I  was  somewhat 
independent  of  the  weather,  the  men  had  hung  around 
the  hotel,  where  preponderant  tobacco  and  over- 
indulgence in  "estrats"  to  kill  time  had  bred  dissatis- 
faction. We  sat  long  after  dejeuner,  and  Bob  Stevenson 
had  given  a  spirited  account  of  a  canoe  race  in  which 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   135 

he  had  participated  in  his  university  days,  a  race  where 
in  part  the  contestants  had  left  the  water  and  carried 
their  heavy  "Rob  Roy"  canoes  across  country  from 
one  stream  to  another.  At  its  conclusion  our  nautical 
friend,  Henry  Enfield,  gave  voice.  "That  is  Hfe;  why 
does  a  man  come  to  Barbizon  where  there  is  nothing 
to  do,  only  to  mess  with  a  lot  of  sticky  colour  ?  No 
self-respecting  country-side  is  without  water,  and  here 
you  can  hardly  get  a  tub."  This  sentiment  was  re- 
echoed by  a  murmur  of  approbation  and,  other  voices 
joining  in,  poor  Barbizon,  which  au  fond  we  all  loved, 
was  left  without  a  leg  to  stand  on.  Then  I  spoke: 
"You  know  there's  a  place  on  the  other  side  of  the 
forest.  I've  never  been  there,  but  some  of  my  French 
friends  have  told  me  of  it,  where  there's  a  river.  I 
don't  know  how  much  of  a  river,  but  I  believe  that 
the  garden  of  the  inn  runs  down  to  it,  and  the  inn  is 
said  to  be  fairly  decent."  With  one  accord  they  turned 
on  me  with  reproach.  "You  have  known  this  all  the 
time,  while  we  have  been  reduced  to  a  wash  bowl  the 
size  of  a  tea-cup.  Let  us  at  once  go  and  bathe  in  that 
river!"  It  was  no  sooner  said  than  done;  one  of  us 
negotiated  with  Lejosne,  and  half  an  hour  after  his 
largest  vehicle  drew  up  at  Siron's;  whereupon,  with 
baggage  of  the  lightest  order,  we  crowded  in  and  were 
off  through  the  forest.  The  party  consisted  of  the 
two  Stevensons,  Henry  Enfield,  Frank  O'Meara, 
Walter  Simpson  and  myself.  Walter  Simpson,  the 
"Cigarette"  of  the  "Inland  Voyage,"  had  by  this  time 
joined  us — Sir  Walter  Grindlay  Simpson,  Bart.,  to 
give  him  his  full  name  and  title;  "so  respectable  and 
so  useful,"  as  his  most  intimate  friend  once  remarked. 


136      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

"in  a  society  where  names  are  hardly  required,  and 
titles  and  respectability  are  equally  at  a  discount";  a 
sentiment  in  which  the  bearer  of  the  name  and  title 
cheerfully  joined.  The  weather  was  stormy,  with  in- 
termittent rain  and  sunshine,  and  the  forest  across 
whose  whole  width  we  rode,  was  superb  under  these 
conditions.  The  vehicle  was  ill  protected  during  the 
showers,  but  this  we  accepted  as  a  promise  of  the 
thorough  wetting  we  anticipated  in  the  river,  and 
laughter  rang  high  and  song  even  was  essayed  as  we 
rolled  under  the  branching  canopy  of  the  wood.  At 
last  we  struck  the  poplar-lined  avenue  from  Bourron 
above  Marlotte,  and  finally  drew  up  at  Chevillon's  Inn. 
By  this  time  the  rain  came  down  in  earnest,  and  for 
the  three  days  of  our  stay  the  downpour  scarcely 
ceased;  a  welcome  which  even  my  amphibious  friends 
thought  somewhat  overdone. 

He  who  goes  to  Grez  to-day  will  find  the  river,  the 
pleasant  garden  of  the  inn,  the  much-depicted  bridge 
(I  believe  myself  the  only  painter  of  my  generation, 
who  has  sojourned  there,  who  has  not  painted  it),  and, 
farther  down  the  street  the  massive  ruin  of  the  palace 
of  La  Reine  ^Blanche,  for  this  little  hamlet  w^as  once 
a  populous  town,  nearby  the  village  church,  large 
and  of  handsome  proportions,  whose  door,  architects 
tell  us,  marks  the  first  influence  of  the  return  of  the 
Crusaders  to  France  by  its  Saracenic  ornament.  He 
will  find  the  inn  modernized  and  changed;  the  original 
building,  which  must  have  been  in  portion  existant  in 
the  latter  days  of  Grez's  importance  as  a  town,  having 
fallen  into  ruin  a  few  years  after  our  visit,  as  transposed 
and  related  in  the  "Treasure  of  Franchard."     He  will, 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   137 

I  trust,  still  find  Madame  Chevillon,  as  I  did  some  five 
years  ago,  when  the  good  old  woman  took  me  to  her 
capacious  bosom  and  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks,  crying 
with  joy  as  at  the  return  of  a  prodigal,  and  with  sor- 
row that  I  came  alone  of  the  gay  company,  who  for 
three  or  four  years  had  been  the  light  of  her  house. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  on  the  occasion  of  our  first 
visit  the  outlook  was  dismal.  Not  to  be  daunted, 
however,  in  the  purpose  of  the  pilgrimage,  a  dip  in  the 
river  was  indulged  in  before  the  dinner,  which,  con- 
sidering that  there  were  no  other  guests  in  the  inn,  and 
that  our  hostess  had  been  taken  unawares,  was  sur- 
prisingly good.  We  elected  to  dine  in  the  kitchen; 
the  large  dining-room,  which  afterward,  when  filled 
with  numerous  guests  the  following  years,  was  suffi- 
ciently gay,  appearing  that  evening  appallingly  sad. 
So  we  gathered  around  the  rude  table  built  into  the 
large  kitchen,  a  roughly  hewed  column  supporting  the 
ceiling,  piercing  it  in  the  middle;  while  in  the  huge 
hooded  fireplace,  where  portions  of  our  dinner  were 
still  cooking,  a  crackling  fire  punctuated  our  conversa- 
tion, and  cast  a  ruddy  glow  over  the  room  as  the  rain 
beat  against  the  heavily  framed  window  panes  without. 
It  was  much  such  a  room  as  the  traveller  in  the  im- 
mortal works  of  Dumas  Pere  would  find;  and  when, 
years  later,  I  read  in  ''La  Rotisserie  de  la  Reine  Pea- 
dauqiiey"  by  Anatole  France,  the  description  of  its 
hero's  boyhood  home,  that  night  at  Grez  came  back  to 
me.  We  went  to  our  beds  finally,  hoping  for  better 
weather  on  the  morrow;  a  hope  in  which  we  were 
deceived,  for  Jupiter  Pluvius  reigned  to  the  end  of  our 
stay.     Continual   drenching   dampened   the   ardour  of 


138      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

our  exploration  of  the  river  by  noon,  as  there  is  no 
place  quite  so  wet  as  a  boat  under  the  rain,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  time  we  remained  not  far  from  the  fire  in 
the  kitchen.  Here,  for  the  only  time  in  all  my  associa- 
tion with  my  friends,  cards  were  procured  and  we  sat 
down  to  a  game,  which  some  one  of  the  party  knew, 
called  Chien  vert.  Knowledge  of  how  this  game  of 
green  dog  is  played  has  quite  vanished  from  my  memory; 
but  it  must  be  of  a  tedious  and  intricate  nature,  as,  to 
the  accompaniment  of  the  faUing  rain,  we  played  some 
forty-eight  hours,  when  not  engaged  in  sleeping  or 
eating,  and  to  give  zest  to  the  performance  we  played 
for  money;  yet,  with  all  this  misplaced  industry,  the 
sum  of  six  francs  represented  the  greatest  loss  sus- 
tained. We  were  in  fact  very  much  bored  with  our 
first  visit  to  Grez,  although  the  inn  was  quaint,  the 
fare  good,  and  our  hostess  kind.  Louis  Stevenson's 
impressions  were  summed  up  in  a  letter  to  his  mother: 

"Chez  Siron,  Barbizon,  Seine  et  Marne, 

August,  1875. 
"My  dear  Mother — 

"I  have  been  three  days  at  a  place  called  Grez,  a 
pretty  and  very  melancholy  village  on  the  plain.  A 
low  bridge  of  many  arches  choked  with  sedge;  great 
fields  of  white  and  yellow  water-lilies;  poplars  and 
willows  innumerable;  and  about  it  all  such  an  at- 
mosphere of  sadness  and  slackness,  one  could  do 
nothing  but  get  into  the  boat  and  out  of  it  again  and 
yawn  for  bedtime. 

"Yesterday  Bob  and  I  walked  home;  it  came  on  a 
very    creditable    thunderstorm;     we    were    soon    wet 


ADVENT  OF  THE  ANGLO-SAXON   139 

through;  sometimes  the  rain  was  so  heavy  that  one 
could  only  see  by  holding  the  hand  over  the  eyes;  and, 
to  crown  all,  we  lost  our  way  and  wandered  all  over  the 
place,  and  into  the  artillery  range  among  broken  trees, 
with  big  shot  lying  about  among  the  rocks.  It  was 
near  dinner  time  when  we  got  to  Barbizon,  and  it  is 
supposed  that  we  walked  from  twenty-three  to  twenty- 
five  miles,  which  is  not  bad  for  the  Advocate,  who  is 
not  tired  this  morning.  I  was  very  glad  to  be  back 
again  in  this  dear  place,  and  smell  the  wet  forest  in 
the  morning.  Simpson  and  the  rest  drove  back  in  a 
carriage  and  got  about  as  wet  as  we  did." 

I  well  remember  the  drive  back  which,  oblivious  to 
discomfort,  we  made  melodious  ( .^)  with  song. 


XI 


STENNIS  AINE,  STENNIS  FRERE,  AND  WALTER 
SIMPSON 

OF  the  two  cousins,  whose  names  and  relationship 
were  thus  misstated  in  the  accounts  which 
Siron  kept,  Bob  was  at  this  time  easily  the 
dominant  spirit.  Louis  held  his  own,  indeed  we  all 
did,  in  the  constant  flow  of  talk;  but  in  our  dissonant 
orchestra  the  baton  of  the  leader  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  elder  of  the  cousins.  In  all  his  sympathies  he  was, 
to  use  Gautier's  phrase,  a  man  for  whom  the  visible 
world  existed;  and  the  world  of  fancy,  illumined  by 
the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,  was  then,  and 
remained  with  him  for  ever,  the  debatable  ground. 
Hence  his  after-allotment  to  Velasquez  of  the  supreme 
place  in  art,  and  the  lesser  sympathy  easily  discernable 
in  his  writing  for  the  effort  of  the  Italian  masters.  His 
taste  in  hterature  was  of  the  same  order,  and  in  the 
many  discussions  where  Louis  upheld  the  claims  of 
the  poets  and  the  more  abstract  writers,  and  where  I 
sided  with  Louis,  Bob  would  in  the  end  dismiss  the 
whole  contention  as  one  beyond  his  ken,  granting 
them  their  place,  but  insisting  that  Flaubort  or  Balzac 
was  much  more  his  "game." 

One  instance  of  a  small  victory  over  Bob  worth  re- 
cording, as  in  matters  aesthetic  few  who  ever  frequented 
him  have  victories  in  argument  to  their  credit,  belongs 
to  the  autumn  preceding  Louis's  first  visit  to  Barbizon, 

140 


THE    STENNISES    AND    SIMPSON      141 

where  my  intimacy  with  his  cousin  first  began,  and 
when  Millet  was  still  alive,  to  be,  unknowingly,  the 
convincing  factor  in  a  hot  discussion  between  two 
English-speaking  art  students. 

The  time  was  out  of  joint  for  my  friend.  The  great 
men  were  not  only  dead,  but  their  influence  was  lost; 
the  age  had  turned  to  science,  and  though,  he  admitted, 
art  was,  in  the  country  where  we  sojourned,  held  in 
high  esteem  and  ranked  with  the  most  important 
avocations  of  man,  it  was  merely  a  perfunctory  sur- 
vival of  habit.  I  protested,  and  cited  Baudry,  of 
whose  devotion  to  his  great  work  in  the  decoration  of 
the  New  Opera  I  had  heard,  though  its  result  was  only 
to  become  known  to  us  later.  But  Bob  argued,  with 
some  truth,  that  one  who,  like  Baudry,  affronted  his 
task  in  so  submissive  a  spirit  as  to  spend  four  years  of 
preparation  in  copying  Michael  Angelo  and  Raphael, 
proved  the  paucity  of  original  initiative  in  our  day, 
demanding  if  I  believed  that  Veronese  would  have 
devoted  an  equal  amount  of  primary  energy  to  the 
preparation  for  any  work  conceivable.  Rather  worsted 
in  my  contention,  I  quietly  arranged,  through  the 
painter's  son,  a  visit  to  Millet's  studio,  where  Bob  had 
never  been,  but  of  which  there  had  already  been  ques- 
tion between  us. 

When  a  time  was  appointed  I  reverted  to  our  talk, 
cheerfully  assuring  my  pessimistic  friend  that  I  had  a 
knife  concealed  in  my  sleeve  for  him.  The  interview 
with  Millet,  if  conducted  on  terms  slightly  more  famil- 
iar than  the  first,  which  I  have  described,  was  suffi- 
ciently impressive.  In  a  nature  as  keenly  appreciative 
as  that  of  my  friend,  the  gradual  realization  that  we 


142      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

were  in  the  presence  of  one  who,  here  in  our  own  time, 
was  close  kin  to  the  mighty  dead — that  this  figure  with 
the  heavy  shoulders  and  slow  tread,  in  the  studio 
simple  almost  to  barrenness,  showing  his  works  with- 
out assumption  of  primacy,  yet  evincing  authority  in 
his  craft  by  every  simple  gesture,  in  every  word  he 
spoke,  and  making  good  his  preeminence  by  every 
work  shown — was  well  worth  observing.  Fluent,  and 
even  flippant  as  Bob  could  be,  here  he  was  neither  one 
nor  the  other,  but,  visibly  moved,  the  few  words  which 
he  spoke  to  the  master  were  tinged  with  emotion.  We 
left  the  studio,  and  with  one  accord  turning  down  the 
village  street,  we  were  well  out  upon  the  plain  before 
either  of  us  spoke.  Then  Bob,  with  a  droll  surrender 
in  his  look  and  tone,  turned  to  me,  and  said:  "Do  you 
consider  it  fair  play,  in  a  conversation  between  gentle- 
men concerning  minor  poets,  to  spring  Shakespeare  on 
your  opponent  ?" 

Louis,  as  I  have  said,  if  not  more  reticent — I  fear  we 
none  of  us  practised  that  virtue  to  any  considerable 
degree — took  a  less  conspicuous  part  when  our  talk 
turned  on  painting,  as  it  naturally  did  much  of  the 
time.  He  was  also  much  with  Walter  Simpson  and, 
as  I  had  for  a  time  work  to  do  in  the  forest,  the  two 
friends  would  often  accompany  me.  Here,  while  I 
worked,  they  would  lie  prone  on  the  ground  basking 
in  the  sunshine,  or,  from  my  station,  would  take  short 
walks,  returning  late  in  the  day,  when  we  would  walk 
homeward  together.  It  was  then  that  I  learned  from 
Simpson  some  of  his  experiences.  The  son  of  the  well- 
known  physician,  who  was  the  first  in  Europe  to  em- 
ploy anaesthetics,  he  had,  with  the  strain  of  seriousness 


THE    STENNISES    AND    SIMPSON      143 

which  is  a  common  trait  of  Scottish  youth,  some  years 
before  decided  that  it  was  an  evasion  of  duty  to  remain 
at  home  at  ease,  enjoying  the  advantages  of  the  wealth 
and  social  position  which  his  father  had  won.  Reason- 
ing that  every  one  should  be  able  to  earn  his  livelihood, 
he  had  applied  for  and  obtained  a  clerkship,  I  think, 
in  Liverpool.  Here  for  a  year  or  so,  he  had  worked, 
living  within  his  salary,  which  was  pitiably  small,  until, 
by  an  equally  ingenious  course  of  reasoning,  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  was  filling  the  place  of  a  man  poorer  than 
himself,  who  might  need  the  money  which  he  was 
earning.  Relinquishing  his  position  he  returned  home, 
and  by  all  accounts  profited  largely,  by  a  revulsion  of 
feeling,  from  all  the  advantages  which  he  had  thereto- 
fore despised.  He  had  read  law,  as  had  Stevenson, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  Bar  as  an  advocate  about  the 
same  time,  though,  like  his  friend,  his  practice  counted 
for  naught.  With  his  considerable  fortune,  a  sincere 
desire  to  do  something  in  the  world  for  himself,  without 
apparently  any  very  definite  idea  as  to  how  he  should 
apply  his  not  inconsiderable  abilities,  he  passed  through 
life  without  making  real  any  of  the  dreams  that,  in  the 
days  of  which  I  write,  were  common  property  with  us 
all.  His  character,  about  this  time,  has  been  well 
described  by  R.  L.  S.,  in  a  fragment  written  in  San 
Francisco  in  1880. 

"The  fourth  of  these  friends  was  Sir  Walter  Simp- 
son, son  of  Sir  James  who  gave  chloroform  to  the 
world.  .  .  .  His  was  a  slow-fighting;  mind.  You  would 
see  him  at  times  wrestle  for  a  minute  at  a  time  with  a 
refractory  jest,  and  perhaps  fail  to  throw  it  at  the  end. 
.  .  .  He  was  shy  of  his  virtues  and  his  talents,  and  above 


144      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

all  of  the  former.  He  was  even  ashamed  of  his  own 
sincere  desire  to  do  right.  .  .  .  Simpson  would  show 
himself  not  only  kind  but  full  of  exceptional  delicacies. 
Some  of  them  I  did  not  appreciate  till  years  after  they 
were  done  and  perhaps  forgotten  by  him.  I  have  said 
his  mind  was  slow,  and  in  this  he  was  an  opposite,  and 
perhaps  an  antidote,  to  Bob.  I  have  known  him  bat- 
tle a  question  sometimes  with  himself,  sometimes  with 
me,  month  after  month  for  years;  he  had  an  honest 
stubbornness  in  thinking,  and  would  neither  let  him- 
self be  beat  nor  cry  victory."  *  In  our  association  I 
chiefly  remember  him  as  ballast  for  our  clipper-ship, 
whose  sail-plan  was  a  trifle  excessive  for  the  hull,  and 
caused  us  at  times  to  steer  an  erratic  course;  yet  no  one 
was  more  ready  than  he  to  lend  a  hand,  and  a  heartfelt 
interest,  in  all  our  activities.  As  Stevenson  has  de- 
scribed Barbizon  as  he  knew  it,  Siron's  hotel  was  less 
an  inn  than  a  club.  Like  any  other  club,  the  edicts  of 
non-admission  were  based  upon  principles  difficult  to 
explain;  but,  as  we  all  of  diff^ering  nationalities  dwelt 
in  harmony,  so,  in  common,  by  various  means,  an  un- 
welcome guest  was  made  to  feel  that  there  were  other 
quarters  of  the  globe  where  his  presence  might  be 
more  desired.  With  one  such  sentence  of  eviction 
Simpson  was  actively  concerned. 

The  stage  one  evening  had  dropped  at  Siron's  door  a 
dapper  little  man,  whose  London  raiment  proclaimed 
him  English,  but  whose  general  inconspicuousness 
effectually  concealed  the  fact  that  he  was  a  cad,  as  a 
verdict  delivered  before  a  day  had  passed  unanimously 
declared  him  to  be.     We  were  in  no  degree  intolerant, 

*  "Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,"  by  Graham  Balfour.     Vol.  I.,  p.  io6. 


THE    STENNISES    AND    SIMPSON      145 

and  had  borne,  with  true  appreciation  of  certain  good 
qualities,  the  society  of  a  youth  from  the  British  Isles, 
who  wore  at  all  times  when  visible  to  us  a  field  glass 
strapped  to  his  person,  for  all  the  world  like  'Arry  on 
'is  'oliday,  who  cheerfully  murdered  the  king's  English 
whenever  he  spoke;  and  who  had  recently  departed, 
eloping  with  one  of  Siron's  maid-servants  under  a 
mistaken  idea  that  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  do  in 
France.  He  had,  however,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
escaped  this  deadliest  of  all  classifications.  The  dead- 
liest, we  were  all  agreed,  for  while  France  and  my  own 
native  land,  as  we  Americans  were  not  infrequently 
reminded,  can  produce  many  varieties  of  the  objection- 
able persons,  England  seems  to  have  evolved  the  type 
of  the  cad  and  to  retain  him  for  her  own. 

Immediately  after  the  first  dinner,  where  the  new 
arrival  took  his  place  and  remained  unnoticed  during 
the  somewhat  noisy  meal,  he  approached  me  in  the 
courtyard,  gave  me  his  card,  bearing  a  name  which  I 
have  forgotten,  and  asked  that  I  should  present  him 
to  my  friends. 

This  I  cordially  assured  him  was  entirely  unneces- 
sary, that  the  unwritten  law  governing  intercourse  at 
a  French  table  d'hote  permitted  his  joining  in  the  con- 
versation and  addressing  whomsoever  he  pleased,  with 
the  certainty  of  receiving  polite  consideration.  The 
next  morning  at  coffee,  and  again  at  the  mid-day  meal, 
my  advice  was  follow^ed,  with  so  much  satisfaction  to 
the  stranger  that,  by  dinner-time,  there  had  grown  an 
undefined  suspicion  that  he  might  be  a  trifle  cheeky. 
This  his  talk  at  dinner  confirmed;  how  it  would  be 
difficult  to  describe,  but,  by  the  time  that  cheese  and 


146      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

coffee  had  appeared,  the  poor  man  had  not  a  friend  in 
the  world. 

Worse  was  yet  to  come,  however,  as  a  number  of  the 
intimates  gave  themselves  up  to  innocent  horse-play  in 
the  court,  vaulting  over  chairs  piled  one  on  another, 
and  performing  various  other  feats  of  agility,  where  the 
Hthe  and  nervous  Bob  excelled.  As  he  concluded 
some  such  feat  we  clapped  our  hands;  whereat,  in 
answer  to  our  applause,  he  removed  his  hat  and,  with 
his  hand  on  his  heart,  bowed  low,  in  mock  acceptance 
of  our  plaudits.  As  he  replaced  his  hat  the  new- 
comer, who  stood  behind  him,  moved  by  a  most  mis- 
taken sense  of  humour,  struck  the  brim,  causing  the 
hat  to  fall  to  the  ground.  Bob's  figure  became  tense 
and,  though  not  tall,  he  appeared  to  tower  as,  with  a 
perfectly  even  luhite  sort  of  voice,  he  said,  "  Pick  that 
up,"  indicating  the  hat  which  had  rolled  away  on  the 
ground.  The  offender  did  so.  "Now  dust  it  off."  It 
was  done.  "Replace  it  carefully  on  my  head."  By 
this  time  our  silence  had  become  intolerable,  and  the 
mistaken  humourist,  having  obeyed  these  commands 
like  one  in  a  dream,  broke  out  in  clamorous  excuse. 
He  had  been  told  that  there  was  no  ceremony  at 
Barbizon,  everything,  he  had  been  assured,  was  free 
and  easy.  He  had  intended  no  offence,  but  simply 
wanted  to  join  in  the  fun.  He  was  allowed  to  finish, 
and  then  Bob,  who  had  hardly  relaxed  a  muscle,  with 
the  same  even  voice  from  which  the  restrained  anger 
relapsed  gradually  to  patient  scorn,  replied:  "Perhaps 
some  time — though  not  here,  I  trust — you  will  learn 
that  where  the  greatest  latitude  prevails  the  utmost 
nicety  of  conduct  must  be  observed.     You  can  do  things 


THE    STENNISES    AND    SIMPSON      147 

in  church,  at  home,  that  you  can't  do  in  Barbizon." 
Abashed  but  not  enlightened,  a  night's  reflection  had 
not  brought  wisdom  to  the  unhappy  wight  when,  meet- 
ing Simpson  at  coffee  before  any  of  the  others  had  ap- 
peared, he  hghtly  turned  off  the  occurrence  of  the  night 
before,  and  then  volunteered  the  information  that,  as  a 
student  of  character,  we  appeared  to  him  a  "rum  lot," 
but  that  he  had  *' sized  us  up"  entirely  to  his  own  satis- 
faction. "Indeed,"  said  the  slow  and  patient  Simp- 
son, luring  him  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  "it  would 
be  curious  to  learn  if  your  'sizing  up'  was  correct." 
Thus  urged,  the  artless  youth  detailed  his  conception 
of  the  various  characters  of  those  sojourning  at  the  inn. 
Exactly  what  he  said,  Simpson,  who  had  his  own  sense 
of  humour,  never  told,  declaring  that  it  "was  quite  too 
dreadful,"  but  at  the  last  begged  that  he  should  be 
favoured  with  a  portrayal  of  his  own  characteristics. 
"Oh,  you,  it's  easy  to  see  through  you,"  bleated  the 
unfortunate,  "you're  the  all-round  British  sport." 
Nothing  occurred  during  the  day  after  Simpson  had 
related  the  morning  interview,  and  the  artless  prattle 
of  the  condemned  went  on  through  the  time  of  dinner. 
It  so  happened  that  after  dinner  we  had  arranged  to 
make  a  nocturnal  visit  to  the  Caverne  des  Brigands,  one 
of  the  show-places  beloved  of  tourists,  where  (possibly) 
at  one  time  robbers  may  have  foregathered.  It  is  a 
tolerably  capacious  cave,  with  a  rude  fireplace  of  rocks 
in  one  corner,  and  a  vent  by  which  the  smoke  of  a  fire 
may  escape.  During  the  day  it  was  occupied  by  an 
old  man,  who  drove  a  fairly  profitable  trade  in  selling 
lukewarm  beer  to  visiting  tourists,  but  at  night  it  was 
deserted.     Here   we  would   repair  with   the   necessary 


148      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

ingredients  for  preparing  punch,  and  when  the  lurid 
flames  of  the  brandy  we  burned  in  an  old  black  kettle 
lit  up  the  interior  of  the  cave,  the  effect  was  sufficiently 
picturesque.  The  walk  to  and  from  the  cave  was  the 
best  part  of  the  expedition,  and  when,  as  now,  the  moon 
was  at  its  full,  it  was  one  of  the  "  things  to  do." 

I  had  suggested  this  particular  excursion,  and  our 
smaller  coterie  had  been  extended  by  my  invitation  and 
that  of  others,  so  that  we  numbered  perhaps  twenty 
strong  as  we  advanced  down  the  moonlit  aisles  of  the 
forest.  Suddenly  some  one  said,  "Do  you  know  that 
that  cad  has  come  along?"  We  were  at  the  head  of 
our  little  procession,  Simpson,  the  Stevensons,  and  I, 
and  acting  as  the  host  I  at  once  proposed  to  read  the 
law  to  the  intruder. 

Quite  eagerly  Simpson  put  me  aside.  "No,  let  me," 
he  said,  his  accent  becoming,  as  it  would  under  stress 
of  excitement,  quite  broadly  Scotch.  With  him  I  re- 
traced my  steps  to  where,  following  in  the  rear,  walked 
our  enemy.  "It's  a  fine  night,"  quoth  Simpson,  whose 
accent  I  shall  not  attempt  to  reproduce.  "You  ap- 
pear to  be  walking;  may  I  ask  where  you  are  going?" 
"To  the  Cavern  of  the  Brigands,"  answered  the  luck- 
less one,  "I've  never  been  there,  and  so  I  thought  I'd 
just  join."  "Ye'll  not  go  there  to-night,"  bluntly  re- 
sponded Simpson,  "  for  the  place  will  be  quite  filled 
with  a  private  party,  and  if  ye  wish  to  walk  I'd  suggest 
that  the  grande  route  to  Fontainebleau  is  open  to  ye." 
Standing  transfixed  under  the  cruelty  of  his  sentence,  we 
left  him.  We  saw  him  no  more,  for  he  rose  with  dawn, 
and  fired  not  with  hope  he  vanished,  and  Barbizon,  the 
abode  of  law-restricted  lawlessness,  mourned  not  his  loss. 


XII 
OUR  WORK,  OUR  PLAY,  AND  OUR  THOUGHTS 

WHAT  was  it  that  rendered  our  sojourn  in  Fon- 
tainebleau  and  its  outlying  villages  so  influen- 
tial in  our  lives  and  of  such  compelling  charm 
that,  whenever  after  I  met  with  Bob  or  Louis,  we 
resumed  our  intercourse  as  though  intervening  time 
and  the  many  accidents  along  the  way  were  banished, 
and  we  were  once  more  at  the  threshold  of  our  life  ? 

The  common  interest  of  our  projected  life-work  was 
undoubtedly  at  the  root  of  this  close  and  enduring 
association,  but  probably  the  strongest  factor  was  that, 
though  of  nationality  so  dissimilar,  of  early  influences 
so  completely  disassociated,  we  were,  for  the  first  time 
and  in  common,  enjoying  the  large  liberty  of  thought 
and  action  that  in  France  is  vouchsafed  to  the  children 
of  the  arts.  This  was  to  us  as  is  the  breath  of  life;  for 
no  matter  how  sympathetic  a  restrained  circle  may  be 
in  other  lands  to  the  embryonic  artist,  no  such  environ- 
ment can  replace  his  universal  acceptance  and  the 
dignity  of  the  position  accorded  him,  which  for  so 
many  centuries  has  made  that  country  the  alma  mater 
of  the  arts. 

We  know  with  what  little  favour  the  chosen  vocation 
of  Louis  Stevenson  was  regarded  at  home,  and  how  he 
had  been  obliged  to  adopt  a  profession  esteemed  more 
respectable.  His  cousin,  to  whom  Louis  wrote  a  few 
months  before  his  death,  "You  wouldn't  imitate,  hence 

149 


150      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

you  kept  free — a  wild  dog  outside  the  kennel,"  never 
forgot  those  early  days  in  Edinburgh.  Later  in  life, 
when  writing  of  Velasquez,  in  explanation  of  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  Spanish  master's  art,  upspringing  like 
a  flower  in  the  arid  soil  of  "a  bigoted  and  fantastically 
ceremonious  court,'^  he  evidently  reverts  to  his  own 
experience.  "  Many  old  men,  reared  in  the  puritanical 
and  hypocritical  Edinburgh  of  the  past,  could  tell  you 
the  private  reactionary  effect  of  that  life  of  repression 
and  humbug  upon  a  decent  genuine  man.  That  you  may 
not  think  at  all,  or  act  for  yourself,  is  to  add  the  very 
zest  of  piracy  to  experiment  in  life  and  originality  in 
thought.  Where  public  profession  is  manifestly  a  lie  and 
public  manners  a  formal  exaggeration,  life  becomes  a 
chest  with  a  false  bottom  which  opens  into  a  refuge  for  the 
kindlier,  wiser,  and  more  ardent  among  human  beings." 

These  conditions  had  borne  hard  upon  my  friends, 
and  though  in  many  ways  my  earlier  lot  had  been  hap- 
pier, the  neophyte  in  art  in  the  days  of  my  youth  in  our 
newer  country  was  a  little  considered  and  solitary  fig- 
ure— his  survivor  even  to-day  having  no  very  definite 
place  in  our  social  fabric.  Hence,  with  something  of 
the  joy  of  colts  let  out  to  pasture,  we  had  embraced  the 
wider  horizon,  and  above  all,  the  untrammeled  liberty 
that  was  unquestionally  accorded  to  our  kind  in  the 
pleasant  land  of  France. 

In  after  years,  according  to  the  manners  and  customs 
of  our  several  countries,  we  affronted  existing  conditions 
and  each  in  our  way  became  very  respectable  dray- 
horses;  but  when  met  together,  some  whiff  of  keener 
air  from  the  plains  of  Fountainebleau  blew  our  way, 
and  the  coltish  spirit  of  our  youth  was  reawakened. 


OUR  WORK,   PLAY,  AND  THOUGHTS  151 

Art  and  life  were  such  synonymous  terms  with  us, 
in  those  days,  that  to  have  as  virtually  our  only  asso- 
ciates men  who,  almost  without  exception,  were  devoted 
to  some  form  of  art,  lent  joy  to  existence — even  when 
intimacy  was  foregone  and  the  relations  were  purely 
formal.  Their  mere  numbers,  however,  ensured  enough 
variety  of  opinions  to  make  the  interchange  of  thought 
wholesome  and  to  keep  our  minds  active;  while  the 
prosecution  of  our  actual  work  added  the  healthy 
influence  of  practice  to  theory. 

There  were  few  drones  in  this  busy  hive  of  art,  but 
of  these  Louis  was  apparently  the  most  consistent. 
We  have  learned  since  how  many  impressions  of  scenes 
and  manners  were  garnered  from  this  apparent  idleness, 
and  through  what  a  formative  period  in  his  work  he 
was  passing  at  the  time.  But  I  never  remember  him 
withdrawing  to  the  seclusion  of  his  room  on  the  plea 
of  work  to  be  done,  or  in  the  long  afternoons  spent  in 
his  company,  while  I  was  industriously  "spoiling  can- 
vas," as  with  more  truth  than  I  imagined  we  were  wont 
to  say  with  facetious  intent,  can  I  recall  him  as  busy 
with  paper  and  pencil.  Even  the  book,  which  was  his 
frequent  companion,  was  more  than  likely  left  unopened. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  with  gratifying  frequency  that 
I  find  in  his  published  works  ideas  and  reflections  born 
of  that  time,  and  in  many  instances  phrases  and  inci- 
dents that  bring  back  some  special  place  in  the  forest, 
or  the  life  that  we  lived  at  Barbizon,Grez,  or  Montigny- 
sur-Loing.  Industrious  idleness  it  was  to  him;  for 
his  mind  was  a  treasure-house,  where  every  addition 
to  its  store  was  carefully  guarded  against  the  day  of 
need.     Many  incidents  of  our  common  experience,  long 


152      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

forgotten  by  me,  I  have  thus  met  in  fresh  guise  in  after 
years;  and  in  most  cases  I  imagine  that  it  was  his  mem- 
ory and  not  his  notes  that  served  him — at  least  of  these 
last  there  v^^as  no  visible  evidence  at  the  time.  Despite 
our  intimacy  w^e  lived  so  much  in  the  present,  each  day 
bringing  its  quota  of  fresh  experience,  that  it  was  long 
after  in  interchange  of  reminiscent  talk  that  I  learned 
of  his  earlier  life,  of  the  days  when  he  was  "ordered 
South,"  and  of  the  storm  and  stress  of  his  adolescent 
years. 

Though  it  was  considered  "good  form"  in  our  circle 
to  expatiate  at  length  upon  the  work  that  we  were  doing, 
and  to  display  it  on  every  occasion  in  the  most  unblush- 
ing manner,  he  was  an  exception  to  the  rule;  vague 
mention  of  the  few  things  he  had  pubhshed  reached  our 
ears,  but  no  copies  of  them  were  produced;  and  it  was 
not  until  the  summer  of  1876  that  I  first  saw  his  work 
printed — the  essay  entitled  "Forest  Notes"  in  the 
"Cornhill"  for  May  of  that  year. 

I  remember  now  a  slight  feeling  of  disappointment 
as  I  read  this  first  specimen  of  his  work;  a  feeling  per- 
haps akin  to  that  expressed  by  a  Httle  girl,  the  daughter 
of  a  well-known  writer  in  New  York,  to  whom  a  copy 
of  the  "Child's  Garden  of  Verses"  had  been  given: 
"Huh,  I  don't  think  much  of  those  verses;  /  think 
things  just  like  them  myself .^^ 

We  were  living  the  life  described  in  this  essay;  one 
passage  recalls  the  sketch  of  mine  that  in  colour  is  the 
"only  proof  we  have  that  Louis's  hair  was  ever  light"; 
and,  though  it  admirably  stands  the  test  of  his  own  defini- 
tion of  the  difference  between  the  work  of  the  amateur 
and  that  of  the  writer  master  of  his  craft,  "  never  to  put 


•r. 

2C 


^  -t:     rt 


OUR   WORK,   PLAY,   AND   THOUGHTS  153 


into  two  pages  the  matter  of  one,"  it  nevertheless  ap- 
peared to  me  at  the  time  to  be  less  than  I  expected 
from  the  impression  that  his  conversation  and  the 
charm  of  his  presence  had  created. 

The  charm  of  his  presence  was  both  appealing  and 
imperative,  and  though  for  other  friends — for  Bob 
especially— the  ties  that  bind  young  men  together  and 
lay  the  foundations  for  lifelong  friendships  were  quite 
as  strong,  Louis,  quite  unconsciously,  exercised  a 
species  of  fascination  whenever  we  were  together. 
Fascination  and  charm  are  not  qualities  which  Anglo- 
Saxon  youths  are  prone  to  acknowledge,  in  manly 
avoidance  of  their  supposedly  feminizing  effect,  but  it 
was  undoubtedly  this  attractive  power  which  R.  L.  S. 
held  so  strongly  through  life;  and  which,  gentle  though 
it  may  have  been,  held  no  trace  of  dependence  or  weak- 
ness, that  led  Edmund  Gosse  to  exclaim,  when  I  chanced 
to  meet  him  at  a  crowded  reception  in  New  York  long 
before  Stevenson  had  attained  a  trans-Atlantic  reputa- 
tion: "I  am  told  that  you  are  a  friend  of  Louis  Steven- 
son. Do  you  know  any  one  in  the  world  that  you  would 
better  like  to  have  w^alk  in  on  us  at  the  present  mo- 
ment ?" 

The  charm,  therefore,  of  the  long  afternoons  spent 
with  him  in  the  woods,  his  book  thrown  aside^  the  long 
fingers  twisting  cigarettes  of  thread-like  dimensions, — 
I  have  never  known  any  one  to  roll  so  thin  a  cigarette  as 
Stevenson, — and  the  constant  flow  of  talk  and  inter- 
change of  thought  come  back  to  me  like  the  opening 
chapters  of  a  book,  which  one  has  perused  with  in- 
creasing delight,  only  to  find  it  at  the  end  by  "a  wilful 
convulsion  of  brute  nature"  finished  too  soon. 


154      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

This  is  the  recollection  of  the  time  passed  alone  with 
him  or  when  Bob  was  present;  but,  when  our  whole 
company  was  gathered  together,  the  talk  took  a  more 
turbulent  course  and  generally  with  good  humour,  but 
always  with  the  "engaging  frankness  of  youth,"  much 
banter  was  tossed  to  and  fro.  One  witticism  recurs  to 
me  that  afterward  attained  respectability  in  the  staid 
columns  of  the  "Saturday  Review";  that  was,  I  believe, 
first  provoked  by  the  indignant  protest  of  the  gallophile 
of  our  party,  against  the  character  of  certain  criticisms 
of  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  land  where  we  so- 
journed. "Don't  mind  him,"  drawled  the  insular 
critic,  "he  is  privately  3.  Frenchman." 

As  already  described,  the  two  Stevensons  and  the 
writer  occasionally  drifted  out  of  the  Enghsh-speaking 
circle  and  had  experiences  more  tinged  with  the  local 
colour  of  the  village  Hfe.  One  such  experience  I  should 
hesitate  to  write,  perhaps,  as  it  seems  like  taking  a  post- 
humous revenge  for  the  indiscretions  of  my  friend,  who 
did  not  scruple  to  portray  an  encounter  that  one  may 
chance  to  have  had  with  the  seductive  quahties  of  the 
wine  of  Roussilon  in  the  pages  of  "The  Wrecker,"  and 
then  make  plain  its  reference  in  the  Epilogue  addressed 
to  me.  As  this  other  experience  was,  how^ever,  unique 
in  my  long  frequentation  of  the  society  of  R.  L.  S.,  it 
may  figure  here  as  a  detail  in  my  portrayal  of  the  man. 

One  morning  Siron  took  the  three  of  us  aside  and 
explained  that  that  evening  a  dinner  was  to  be  given  by 
him  in  honour  of  the  baptism  of  his  first  grandchild, 
and  that,  as  it  was  manifestly  impossible  for  him  to 
invite  all  the  sojourners  at  his  inn,  he  had  flatteringly 
chosen  us  from  their  number,  and  desired  our  presence 


OUR   WORK,   PLAY,  AND  THOUGHTS  155 

at  the  dinner.  We  had,  however,  a  previous  engage- 
ment to  pass  the  evening  with  our  friend  La  Chevre; 
but,  seeing  Siron's  evident  disappointment,  we  promised 
to  come  in  later  and  assist  in  properly  launching  the 
innocent  grandchild  upon  the  troubled  waves  of  life. 

When,  after  a  pleasant  evening  with  our  friends  at 
the  end  of  the  village,  and  the  customary  supper 
washed  down  with  some  excellent  white  wine,  we  ar- 
rived at  the  scene  of  the  baptismal  dinner,  the  festivi- 
ties were  at  their  height.  The  table  had  been  spread  at 
one  end  of  the  long  garden  behind  the  hotel  and  some 
forty  guests  were  present,  including  the  proud  parents, 
all  the  relations  near  or  remote,  and  the  chef  and  other 
servants  of  the  hotel.  Coffee  had  been  served  and 
song  was  in  order,  each  of  the  guests  in  turn  aiming  to 
shine  in  sentimental  or  comic  vein;  the  chef,  already 
far  gone  in  liquor,  at  once  rising  ready  to  burst  into 
melody  as  each  singer  finished  his  contribution,  and 
being  as  promptly  suppressed.  The  proud  father  of 
the  babe  was  one  of  the  forest  guards,  an  Alsatian, 
who,  like  so  many  of  the  sons  of  that  unhappy  prov- 
ince, had  been  given  his  choice  after  the  annexation  to 
leave  his  native  province  or  remain  and  become  a  sub- 
ject of  the  hated  German  empire.  He  had  chosen  to 
remain  French  and  had  been  rewarded  w^ith  his  post 
as  one  of  the  guardians  of  the  forest.  Our  arrival  only 
temporarily  checked  the  flow  of  song,  more  wine  was 
brought,  many  toasts  were  drunk,  and,  as  the  whole 
atmosphere  seemed  charged  with  the  vapours  of  a 
Gargantuan  repast  plentifully  liquefied  by  an  abun- 
dance of  the  juice  of  the  grape,  it  was  not  long  before  we 
three,  ordinarily  temperate  youths,  rose  to  the  festival 


156      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


heights  where  our  friends  were  enthroned.  The  muse 
was  largely  patriotic,  the  wounds  of  the  late  war  were 
hardly  healed,  and  the  presence  of  one  who  had  given 
up  the  hearths  of  his  fathers  at  the  call  of  patriotism, 
dictated  the  choice  of  the  post-prandial  repertoire.  We 
heard  thundered  forth  how  at  ReichshofFen  death  had 
closed  up  the  ranks  of  the  cuirassiers,  and  various  other 
songs  bewailing  the  sorrows  of  France  and  vowing 
vengeance  on  her  enemies,  when  the  forest  guard  rose 
precipitately  and,  with  an  embracing  movement,  drew 
the  three  of  us  into  the  cool  recesses  of  the  garden. 
Once  there  he  turned,  the  tears  streaming  down  his 
visage  and  cried:  "Now,  Messieurs,  we  will  weep  to- 
gether for  the  sorrows  of  France!"  After  that  my 
memory  is  somewhat  confused,  though  I  have  a  con- 
tinuing vision  of  the  white-robed  chef  bobbing  up  se- 
renely at  stated  intervals  and  beginning  a  song  that  as 
frequently  was  forcibly  checked  amid  his  expostula- 
tions, until,  at  last,  we  three  found  ourselves  in  the 
moonlit  village  street  outside  the  inn. 

It  must  have  been  long  past  midnight,  but  instead  of 
seeking  our  beds,  as  prudence — and  our  condition — 
dictated,  we  sought  the  seclusion  of  the  forest.  There, 
at  the  end  of  the  long  allee,  chequered  by  light  and 
shade,  we  came  to  a  space  more  open,  where  the 
ground  was  silvered  by  the  full  flood  of  the  high-riding 
moon.  Here,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  we  stretched 
ourselves  at  full  length  and  discoursed — we  could  still 
talk— of  many  things  of  grave  import,  no  doubt,  though 
they  escape  my  treacherous  memory  at  the  present  time. 
How  long  we  stayed  there  in  this  beatific  state  I  know 
not,  but  finally  Bob,  rising  to  a  sitting  position,  made 


OUR  WORK,   PLAY,  AND  THOUGHTS  157 

the  surprising  statement  that  we  were  three  idiots  and 
might  better  be  in  bed.  Somewhat  pained,  we  never- 
theless agreed  with  his  concluding  suggestion  and,  with- 
out too  much  difficulty,  retraced  our  steps  to  our  lodging. 

Here  I  have  a  vision  of  Bob  waving  a  bed-room 
candle  from  the  stair  leading  to  his  room  on  the  floor 
above  that  where  Louis  and  I  had  ours,  and  sternly 
commanding  me  to  see  that  his  cousin  got  safely  to  bed. 
I  took  this  command  with  a  seriousness  befitting  the 
occasion,  and  at  last,  when  Louis  was  properly  robed 
for  the  night,  I  concluded  my  friendly  service  by  care- 
fully tucking  in  the  covering.  This  I  did  in  so  consci- 
entious a  manner  that  my  friend,  smiling  blandly  from 
his  pillow,  murmured:  "How  good  you  are,  you  re- 
mind me  of  my  mother."  In  after  years,  though  I  am 
forced  to  admit  that  the  version  of  this  story  given  by 
R.  L.  S.  varied  from  my  own  truthful  recital,  we  have 
often  laughed  over  the  baptism  of  Siron's  grandchild, 
and  his  shade  may  now  be  smiling  at  me  as  I  write. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  well  to  explain  here  how  little  in- 
temperance played  a  part  in  all  our  student  gatherings. 
What  little  there  was  may  be  laid,  I  fear,  at  the  door  of 
the  aliens;  for  among  my  French  comrades  it  was 
virtually  unknown.  I  can  still  see  the  extraordinary 
air  of  the  connoisseur  adopted  by  one  of  these  last — by 
my  friend  Codes,  whose  character  I  have  described 
some  pages  back — when  at  the  conclusion  of  a  dinner 
he  would  consult  the  list  of  vins  fins.  "We  will  prob- 
ably not  order  anything,"  he  would  gravely  state,  "  but 
the  very  names  of  these  wines  have  an  aroma  of  their 
own."  And  then,  lingering  over  the  syllables,  he  would 
murmur,  half  to  himself,  the  enchanting  titles  of  the 


158      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

aristocratic  offspring  of  the  invigorating  sun  and  the 
fruitful  earth,  concluding,  perhaps,  by  ordering  a  mod- 
est half  bottle  of  some  well-known  vintage,  which,  drop 
by  drop,  sharing  with  an  appreciative  friend,  he  would 
savour  to  the  dregs. 

With  Stevenson,  also,  appreciation  of  the  taste  and 
the  flavour  of  romance,  which  clings  to  the  tradition  of 
good  wine,  was  as  keen  as  his  abhorrence  of  the  intem- 
perance thatwas  common  in  Scotland.  On  the  one  hand, 
I  remember  his  saying  reflectively,  over  a  final  bottle  of 
the  Beaujolais-Fleury  at  Lavenues  on  the  eve  of  one  of 
his  visits  home,  "  I  wish  that  we  could  get  this  in  Edin- 
burgh, for  you  don't  know  how  I  dread  returning  there 
and  adapting  myself  to  the  ration  of  drink  usual  in  the 
land  of  my  fathers."  On  the  other  hand,  I  remember 
his  exclamation,  "Don't  that  make  you  just  love 
France,"  when  I  told  him  the  legend  that  there  was  a 
standing  order  in  the  French  Army  that  no  detachment 
of  troops  should  ever  pass  the  narrow  strip  of  land  on 
which  ripens  the  noble  cru  of  Clos  Vougeot,  without 
presenting  arms. 

Sins  of  omission  and  of  commission  were  plentiful 
enough  in  my  time  among  the  students,  as  they  had 
been  probably  since  the  first  students  sat  on  their  tresses 
of  straw  and  conversed  in  Latin  in  the  rue  de  la  Harpe, 
giving  its  name  to  the  students'  quarter,  and  as  they  are 
to-day  within  its  enlarged  boundaries;  but  over-indul- 
gence in  drink  is  not  one  of  them,  and  it  is  as  a  some- 
what extraordinary  occurrence  that  I  have  ventured  to 
tell  this  tale  of  "when  the  wine  had  done  its  rosy  deed." 


XIII 
A  PARIS  WINTER  AND  A  FIRST  EFFORT 

4  NOTHER  summer  had  fled,  our  little  company 
j\  at  Barbizon  had  dispersed,  Louis  and  Sir 
Walter  Simpson  had  returned  to  Scotland, 
and  others  of  us  were  again  domiciled  in  Paris.  Work 
in  the  atelier  of  our  master  was  resumed  and  our  life 
was  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  preceding  year.  One 
incident  of  our  playtime  comes  back,  and  shows  Bob  in 
the  spirit  in  which  his  cousin  drew  him  in  the  episode 
of  the  young  man  with  the  cream-tarts,  in  the  "New 
Arabian  Nights,"  as  the  Squire  of  Dames  and  as  the 
temporary  householder  of  the  Superfluous  Mansion  in 
its  sequel,  the  "  Dynamiter."  In  aJ  three  of  these  di- 
verse characters  resides  some  particle  of  the  frolic  na- 
ture of  my  friend;  though,  as  the  seqaell  of  this  inci- 
dent proves,  the  description  of  Challoner,  in  the  latter 
book,  especially  applied  to  him.  "He  was  the  spirit  of 
fine  courtesy,  and  would  have  blushed  to  fail  in  his 
devoirs  to  any  lady;  but,  in  the  other  scale,  he  was 
a  man  averse  from  amorous  adventures." 

We  were  loitering  among  the  book-stalls  which  line 
the  quai  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine  near  the  Pont  des 
Saints  Peres.  It  was  a  fine  day  in  the  late  autumn; 
great  white  clouds  scudding  through  the  blue  overhead, 
when  we  saw  two  young  girls  at  the  entrance  to  the 
bridge,  carrying  between  them  a  huge  basket  laden 
with  freshly  starched  linen.     In  nautical  phrase,  they 

159 


160      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

were  making  heavy  weather  against  the  wind  and 
there  was  a  fine  swirl  of  skirts  and  eager  effort  to  pre- 
vent their  precious  burden  from  following  the  fallen 
leaves  which  danced  along  the  quai. 

After  watching  them  a  minute,  Bob  proposed  that 
we  should  go  to  their  assistance.  This  my  more  sober 
spirit  refused,  arguing  that  distance  lent  enchantment 
to  any  blanchisseuse^  no  matter  how  pretty,  as  these 
particular  specimens  certainly  were.  Before  my  logic 
had  time  to  halt  him,  Bob  had  left  my  side  and,  doffing 
his  hat  as  he  approached  them,  accosted  the  two  girls. 
In  pantomime  I  saw  their  start  of  surprise  and  their 
laughing  protest,  but  Bob  was  not  to  be  withstood.  He 
must  have  appeared  strange  to  them  with  his  trim 
figure  and  well  set  up  shoulders  encased  in  a  brown 
velvet  coat  rather  the  worse  for  wear;  but,  on  the 
whole,  as  different  in  appearance  from  the  average 
student  of  the  quarter  as  from  the  average  English  visi- 
tor to  Paris,  in  whose  ranks  his  accent  might  have 
seemed  to  place  him.  I  was  too  far  away  to  hear  the 
words  of  their  parley;  but  his  eager,  yet  courteous,  in- 
sistence evidently  won  the  day;  for,  after  a  moment, 
the  two  young  women  relinquished  their  charge,  and 
my  comrade,  passing  his  arm  through  the  handle  of  the 
basket,  the  group  of  three  took  their  way  across  the 
bridge.  As  far  as  I  could  see  them  the  two  girls,  with 
much  gesticulation,  appeared  to  chatter  with  a  mix- 
ture of  surprise  and  glee,  to  which  Bob  answered  as 
gayly. 

"Where  did  you  go?"  I  asked  him  that  evening 
when  he  had  rejoined  me  at  dinner,  discretion  not  seem- 
ing to  be  demanded  in  such  a  case.    "A  beastly  way  up 


A  PARIS  WINTER  161 

toward  Montmartre,  in  the  rue  des  Martyrs,"  he  an- 
swered, apparently  not  at  all  elated.  "I  stayed  below 
while  they  delivered  the  wash.  Afterward  I  invited 
them  to  have  something  to  drink  at  a  marchand  du  vin; 
and  then  one  of  the  little  fools  acted  as  if  she  thought 
it  my  duty  to  make  love  to  her." 

"And  you  failed  to  rise  to  the  occasion  ?" 

"You  know  very  well  that  that  wasn't  my  game," 
answered  my  friend  with  a  bored  look. 

"Then  why,  in  heaven's  name,  did  you  waltz  half 
way  across  Paris,  dragging  a  laundry  basket,  in  com- 
pany with  two  giggling  girls  V 

"  Blest  if  I  know,"  was  the  only  answer  my  enig- 
matic comrade  would  deign  to  make. 

This  absurd  adventure  was  evidently  prompted  by 
the  same  spirit  which  led  the  two  cousins,  on  a  trip  to 
London,  about  this  time,  to  visit  the  Grosvenor  gallery 
simply  attired  with  blue  Jerseys  in  place  of  the  frock 
coat  of  afternoon  wear.  There  they  espied  one  of  their 
very  good  friends,  in  close  communion  with  a  number 
of  young  women,  listening  to  his  explanation  of  the 
works  of  art  surrounding  them.  This  group  they 
promptly  joined,  whispering  to  the  abashed  ciceroney 
at  a  loss  to  explain  his  ill-dressed  friends:  "Say  that 
we  are  two  seafaring  men  whose  aesthetic  education 
you  have  undertaken." 

At  Barbizon  picturesqueness  of  costume,  either  de- 
liberately cultivated  or  worn  from  convenience  and 
economy,  was  the  order  of  the  day  and  in  the  students' 
quarter  in  Paris,  though  there  are  some  surprising 
exceptions  to  the  rule,  conventionality  of  dress  is  not 
exacted.     Bob's  careless  dress  was  sufficiently  becom- 


162      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

ing,  while  Louis's  attire,  as  he  has  attested  in  descrip- 
tions of  more  than  one  misadventure,  was  apt  to 
bring  upon  him  suspicion  and  distrust;  but  in  these 
days  they  were  both  so  absolutely  rebellious  to  the  con- 
ditions from  which  they  were  new^y  escaped,  that  the 
garb  in  which  they  often  chose  to  appear  must  have 
been   a  sore  trial  to  their  friends  of  the  conventional 

type- 
All    this    winter,    however,    Louis    was    facing    the 

rigours  of  his  northern  home,  while  his  cousin  and  our 

friends  of  the  summer  were  working  in  the  school  or, 

later,  as  the  season  advanced,  busying  themselves  with 

the  pictures  which,  with  varying  fortunes,  we  were  to 

send  to  the  Salon. 

Soon  after  the  first  of  the  year  the  annual  dinner 
which  the  ateher  tendered  our  master  took  place.  For 
these  banquets  one  of  the  restaurants  on  the  boulevards 
in  the  centre  of  Paris  was  chosen,  and  they  were  always 
of  a  more  or  less  ceremonious  character,  at  least  until 
the  hour  when  the  master  left  us.  Then  the  livelier 
spirits  of  youth  were  given  freer  rein,  and  the  celebra- 
tion finally  broke  up  at  a  late  hour;  the  company, 
marching  two  by  two,  frequently  giving  vent  to  their 
artistic  enthusiasm  in  song,  across  Paris  to  our  own 
quarter. 

This  year  a  number  of  the  students  of  Duran  had 
united  to  express  their  enthusiasm  for  the  master  by  a 
poem  which,  set  to  an  appropriate  air,  was  sung  in  his 
presence  at  the  dinner.  Our  master  was  a  man  whose 
early  struggles  had  taught  him  the  value  of  self-asser- 
tion in  the  critical  milieu  of  Paris;  and,  at  that  time 
and  since,  could  not  be  accused  of  false  modesty.     In 


A  PARIS  WINTER  163 

the  view  of  several  of  us,  however,  the  excess  of  lauda- 
tion with  which  this  song  w^as  thickly  spread  was  cal- 
culated to  bring  the  blush  of  shame  to  a  bronze  statue. 
In  point  of  fact,  Duran  had  politely  demurred  to  his  en- 
thusiastic pupils'  laboured  praise,  and  had  been  heard 
to  murmur  at  the  conclusion  of  the  song:  "Oh,  no,  my 
children — mes  enfants,  c'est  trop — it  is  too  much." 

I  regret  that  I  cannot  remember  the  words  of  this 
song,  but  their  general  theme  w^as  the  exaggerated 
comparison  of  our  master  to  the  great  painters  of  the 
past.  Italy  had  her  Titian,  Spain  her  Velasquez,  and 
their  special  merits  were  particularized,  while  each 
verse  ended  with  the  antistrophe  "but  France  has 
Carolus-Duran!"  The  conviction  with  which  three  of 
our  comrades  lined  up  at  the  piano,  where  a  fourth 
played  the  accompaniment,  sang  these  laudatory  coup- 
lets might  have  touched  a  heart  of  stone;  but  with  some 
of  us  they  merely  stirred  our  sense  of  humour.  It  was 
quite  long,  there  were  at  least  four  verses,  but  during 
their  performance  Bob,  Enfield,  and  myself,  the  black 
sheep  of  the  Duran  fold,  though  we  jesuitically  joined 
in  the  chorus,  were  congratulating  ourselves  that  we, 
too,  had  a  song. 

This  was  largely  of  Bob's  composition,  though  En- 
field and  I  had  been  of  some  assistance  to  our  comrade, 
struggling  in  the  meshes  of  French  verse,  and  we  pro- 
posed to  w^ait  the  moment  when  our  master  had  left  us, 
and  then  seek  the  suffrages  of  our  comrades. 

Of  this  song  I  can  remember  but  one  verse,  though 
I  think  it  had  more;  but  no  copy  is,  so  far  as  I  know, 
extant,  and  the  other  couplets  have  faded  from  my 
memory.    I  can  only  make  the  lamest  of  prose  transla- 


164      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

tions  of  our  doggerel*  and  so  give  it  in  its  original 
French — original  in  more  senses  than  one: 

Esquivant  les  lois  de  la  construction; 

Nous  mettons  dans  nos  fonds, 

Des  couleurs  tres  frappantes; 

Ne  dessinant  jamais,  jamais  nous  ne  finissons; 

Pour  nous  la  nature  n'est  qu'une  tache, 

Et  Carolus-Duran ! 

REFRAIN 

Les  Aleves  de  Carolus-lus-lus-lus, 
Les  Aleves  de  Carolus-lus-lus-lus, 
Les  deves  de  Carolus-lus-lus-lus, 
De  Carolus-Duran,  avec  un  D! 

It  seems  to  savour  of  irreverence  that  w^e  could  thus 
ruthlessly  deny  the  principles  wg  w^ere  sworn  to  main- 
tain; to  reek  vt^ith  ingratitude  to  play  upon  the  name 
of  the  patron;  but  it  was  our  comrades,  of  course, 
that  we  were  really  guying,  and  not  the  undoubted  tal- 
ent of  our  master.  No  sooner  had  our  master  been 
helped  into  his  overcoat,  had  been  handed  his  hat  and 
cane,  and  had  been  respectfully  escorted  to  his  car- 
riage, than  Enfield  and  a  few  others  who  had  been  let 
into  the  secret,  burst  into  song.     The  effect  upon  the 

*  Avoiding  with  intent  the  laws  of  construction; 
In  our  backgrounds  we  use  the  most  violent  colour. 
We  never  draw — much  less  do  we  finish; 
For  us  nature  is  only  a  spot  f — and  Carolus-DuranI 

REFRAIN 

The  pupils  of  Carolus-lus-lus-lus, 
The  pupils  of  Carolus-lus-lus-lus, 
The  pupils  of  Carolus-lus-lus-lus, 
Of  Carolus-Duran,  spelt  with  a  D! 

t  Tache,  used  in  a  technical  sense,  is  diflficult  of  translation;  the  spot  of  a 
colour  or  of  light  and  shade  in  relation  to  other  colours  or  tones  within  the 
pictorial  vision,  is  so  denominated,  technically,  in  French. 


A   PARIS   WINTER  165 

whole  number  of  pupils  was  electrical.  Even  those 
who,  a  few  minutes  before,  had  so  outrageously  sung 
the  praises  of  the  master,  were  forced  to  join  in,  and  on 
our  homeward  way  the  good  citizens  of  the  compara- 
tively quiet  quarter  where  we  lived,  heard  in  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning,  chanted  in  a  great  variety  of 
accents,  the  strange  refrain  of  "Carolus-lus-lus-lus." 
From  that  time  forward  the  serious  effort  in  which  our 
master  was  compared  to  Titian  and  Velasquez  was 
relegated  to  oblivion,  and  our  cynical  chorus  became 
the  official  song  of  the  atelier;  always  sung,  bien  en- 
tenJu,  out  of  the  hearing  of  our  master. 

Perhaps  he,  in  his  turn,  may  be  endowed  with  a  suf- 
ficient sum  of  humour  to  enjoy  the  burlesque  icono- 
clasm  of  these  halting  verses,  but  I  know  of  none  of  his 
grateful  students  who  would  have  put  it  to  the  test. 

Here,  as  typical  of  the  independent  action  to  which 
an  otherwise  perfectly  respectful  and  submissive  pupil 
may  be  driven,  the  story  of  my  first  Salon  picture  may 
find  place. 

I  had  arrived  at  a  point  in  my  atelier  work  where  I 
was  thoroughly  discouraged.  Many  of  my  comrades, 
some  of  whom  I  felt  to  be  in  no  wise  artistically  superior 
to  myself,  were  able,  with  a  certain  regularity,  to  paint 
each  week  a  creditable  study  in  the  school.  As  I  now 
look  back,  there  was  a  certain  conventional  character 
to  many  of  these,  and  they  had  perhaps  more  merit  as 
examples  of  submissive  acceptation  of  our  master's 
principles  than  evidence  of  individual  insight.  In  my 
own  effort  to  avoid  what  I  felt  to  be  a  mannerism  of 
another's  invention,  I  floundered  hopelessly,  to  my 
master's    despair,    though    he    was    most    considerate 


166      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

and    appeared    to   understand   intuitively    my   mental 
attitude. 

At  last,  without  consulting  him,  I  took  a  desperate 
resolve.  As  I  could  do  nothing  in  the  school  I  would 
see  what  I  could  accomplish  in  my  own  studio.  I  pro- 
cured a  large  canvas,  for  I  was  nothing  if  not  ambi- 
tious, and  began  a  composition  of  a  life-sized  figure  and 
a  beautiful  greyhound,  that  was  then  my  constant 
companion.  Barely  six  weeks  remained  before  the 
day  when  contributions  to  the  Salon  were  due,  and  I 
worked  in  a  species  of  frenzy  early  and  late. 

One  morning,  when  this  term  was  half  elapsed,  I  met 
M.  Duran  just  as  I  was  entering  my  studio.  He  greeted 
me  and  inquired  the  reason  for  my  absence  from  the 
ateher  in  the  past  weeks,  and  I  was  obliged  to  confess 
that  I  was  trying  to  paint  something  for  the  Salon.  His 
eyebrows  rose  with  a  look  of  doubt  for  my  success. 
"However,"  he  added  kindly,  "let  me  see  what  you 
are  doing." 

With  all  the  trepidation  of  a  schoolboy  caught  in  mis- 
chief, I  spiritlessly  ushered  him  before  my  canvas.  Its 
size,  and  the  comparative  difficulty  of  my  undertaking 
brought  reproof  at  once.  With  httle  consideration  for 
my  feelings,  he  commanded  me  to  abandon  then  and 
there  what  I  could  not  hope  to  finish  before  the  Salon 
opened;  what,  in  any  case,  my  knowledge  would  not 
permit  me  to  carry  to  a  successful  finish.  He  cited  one 
of  my  comrades,  a  crack  pupil  of  our  school,  and  praised 
his  modesty  in  preparing  for  his  dehut  a  simple  study  of 
a  head;  contrasting  his  conduct  with  my  ill-judged 
temerity. 

It  was  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  and,  as  I  was  miser- 


A   PARIS   WINTER  167 

ably  conscious  of  the  shortcoming  of  my  effort,  I  prof- 
fered no  defence  and  Duran  left  me,  probably  thinking 
that  my  silence  meant  acquiescence  to  his  counsel.  For 
a  brief  moment  I  entertained  the  thought  of  such  obe- 
dience, but  as  quickly  I  realized  that  to  abandon  my 
effort  then  would  mean  to  me  complete  surrender  and 
tacit  acceptance  of  a  place  in  the  ranks  of  the  vanquished. 

Acceptance  by  the  Salon  jury,  while  it  would  mean 
much,  was  but  half  of  my  contention;  the  approval  of 
my  own  artistic  environment — the  reward  which  en- 
courages an  artist,  young  or  old,  more  than  any  other — 
was  partly  mine;  for  some  of  my  fellows  thought 
Duran's  strictures  unduly  harsh,  and  so  I  persevered. 

The  twentieth  of  March  was  the  fateful  date  that 
marked  the  last  delay  for  the  delivery  of  pictures  to  the 
Salon.  Painting  up  to  the  last  minute,  while  the  im- 
patient carrier  waited,  I  at  last  resigned  my  precious 
canvas  to  his  hands,  and,  following  the  universal  cus- 
tom prevalent  then  among  young  painters,  at  once  hied 
me  to  the  Palais  de  I'lndustrie. 

This  building,  a  relic  of  an  earlier  Exposition  Uni- 
verselle,  has  been  swept  away  to  be  replaced  by  one 
far  more  ornate,  though  less  well  adapted  to  the  exhi- 
bition of  works  of  art,  which  was  built  for  the  Exposi- 
tion of  1900.  As  it  then  stood  on  the  Champs  Elysees, 
a  door  at  the  end  of  the  building,  nearest  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  was  assigned  to  the  reception  of  pictures, 
and  on  this  last  day  a  compact  mass  of  large  vans,  from 
which  paintings,  some  of  them  of  huge  dimensions,  were 
being  rapidly  unloaded,  was  drawn  up  before  it. 
Threading  a  path  through  these,  the  porters  carried 
their  burdens,  precious  in  the  eyes  of  their  producers 


168       A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

at  least;  many  of  these  last  followed  near,  thrilling  with 
fear  lest  in  the  confusion  some  accident  might  befall 
their  pictures.  At  the  doors  bewildered  police  officers 
vainly  endeavoured  to  keep  out  a  constantly  increasing 
number  of  students,  models,  and  artists,  all  intent  on 
taking  part  in  the  joyous  ceremony,  which  marked  the 
termination  of  their  labours  for  the  exhibition  of  the 
year.  Once  inside,  for  by  the  aid  of  excuses  more  or 
less  plausible,  or  by  concerted  rushes,  entrance  could 
be  generally  effected,  the  spectators  lined  the  steps 
and  the  landing  of  the  monumental  stairway.  A  nar- 
row passage  was  left,  through  which  to  the  galleries  on 
the  upper  floor  the  various  pictures  were  borne.  At 
times  eight  or  ten  perspiring  workmen  would  bear  an 
enormous  canvas;  lesser  numbers  would  carry  smaller 
works;  but  one  and  all  of  these  canvases,  subjected  to 
the  criticism  of  a  lawless  band,  would  ehcit  some  com- 
ment, shouted  so  that  all  could  hear,  that  more  or  less 
critically  characterized  the  picture,  then  being  conveyed 
to  its  final  judgment  before  the  regularly  constituted 
jury.  Of  course,  a  majority  of  these  critics  had  work  of 
their  own  in  the  mass,  and,  when  one  could  single  it  out 
borne  in  the  slow  moving  procession  up  the  stairway, 
ears  were  strained  to  discover  in  the  jeering  comment 
some  murmur  of  admiration. 

The  pupils  of  various  masters  essayed  to  provoke 
applause  as  the  work  of  their  teacher  would  be  carried 
by,  applause  which  would  be  as  quickly  drowned  in 
the  cat  calls  and  groans  of  the  adherents  of  rival  schools. 
Grave  religious  pictures  would  be  received  by  parodies 
of  the  chants  of  the  church,  voiced  in  no  religious  spirit, 
and  the  cries  of  a  menagerie  broken  loose  would  greet 


A   PARIS   WINTER  169 


the  work  of  the  animal  painters.  It  was  well  that  the 
adoring  wives,  appreciative  husbands,  and  fond  parents 
of  the  subjects  of  the  various  portraits  were  not  present, 
for  the  remarks  on  their  appearance  were  not  chastened 
in  style  or  limited  in  their  application. 

This  annually  recurring  ceremony  only  ceased  with 
the  entrance  of  the  last  picture  at  nightfall,  when  the 
critical  mob,  hoarse  with  the  intensity  of  its  vehement 
appreciation,  was  ejected,  and  the  great  doors  were 
closed,  leaving  the  pictures  to  face  the  awful  ordeal  of 
judgment  by  the  members  of  the  jury  on  painting. 

Then  followed  nearly  six  weeks  of  torturing  suspense, 
until  an  official  notification  brought  the  glad  tidings 
that  my  "Reverie — in  the  time  of  the  First  Empire" — 
for  so  my  picture  was  entitled — had  won  its  inclusion 
in  the  Salon  of  1876.  As  may  be  imagined,  I  was  among 
the  first  to  enter  the  exhibition  halls  on  the  momentous 
first  of  May,  the  "varnishing  day,"  reserved  for  the 
contributors  and  for  all  the  notabilities  of  art,  letters, 
and  the  drama,  supported  by  those  who  make  up  the 
"Tout  Paris";  which  is  never  more  essentially  Parisian 
than  in  thus  gathering  once  a  year  to  do  homage  to  the 
arts,  before  the  doors  of  the  Salon  are  opened  to  the 
general  public. 

It  is  a  thrilling  experience  to  seek  for  the  first  time, 
among  the  thousands  of  pictures  which  hne  the  walls  of 
this  great  exhibition,  your  maiden  effort.  You  first 
search  feverishly  through  the  pages  of  the  catalogue,  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure,  and  at  last  you  find  the 
entry:  No.  5368:  its  tide  and  your  name,  followed  by 
"  born  in  the  United  States,  pupil  of  M.  Carolus-Duran." 
Guided    by    the    letters    which    designate    the    various 


170      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

rooms,  you  search  in  those  which  bear  the  initial  of 
your  name  and,  at  last,  there,  on  the  second  row,  a 
strangely  shrunken  frame  encloses  a  gruesome  work 
which  you  are  forced  to  recognize,  with  painful  emo- 
tion, as  the  picture  that,  in  its  bright  new  frame, 
looming  large  in  your  small  studio,  and  fresh  in  its 
newly  applied  colour  some  six  weeks  ago,  you  modestly 
believed  to  be  "not  so  bad." 

You  learn  afterward  to  distrust  this  first  impression 
which  your  work  produces  and  reserve  your  judgment 
for  a  calmer  and  more  impartial  view,  w^hen  the  shock 
of  hasty  comparison  with  other  and  better  work  is  past, 
and  you  can  temperately  decide  that,  if  the  distance  to 
be  traversed  before  you  arrive  at  definite  achievement 
is  great,  you  have  at  least  started  on  the  journey.  It  is 
well  that  this  is  so,  for  if  it  were  otherwise  the  Seine  is 
conveniently  near,  and  the  number  of  young  artists 
seeking  in  its  water  obhvion  from  disillusion  would  be 
disproportionately  great. 

The  effect  of  this  first  Impression  was  no  doubt 
somewhat  visible  on  my  countenance  as  I  dutifully 
sought  my  master,  who  stood  surrounded  by  an  admir- 
ing group,  before  one  of  his  own  works  in  an  adjoining 
room.  "You  here,"  he  exclaimed  with  some  surprise, 
"you  have  a  picture  accepted  then;   let  me  see  it!" 

I  led  the  way  and  Duran  frowned  as  he  saw  the  for- 
bidden fruit  of  miy  effort.  "And  so  you  have  disobeyed 
me  ? "  looking  intently  at  the  picture  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  turned  to  me  and,  probably  appeased  by  my 
dejected  aspect,  he  said,  not  unkindly:  "Well,  I  am 
sure  that  now  you  agree  with  me,  that  it  was  unwise 
to  attempt  so  much." 


Rc\LTic     in  till-  lime  of  the  I'"irsl  I'.mpire.     Salon  ol"  iSyf)  and  X.  A.  1). 

I^xhibition,  1877 

From  tin-  painting  liy  Will  II.  Low,  in  the  possession  of  John  Boyd  Thacher,  Esq., 

Albany,  N.  Y. 


A  PARIS   WINTER  171 


Well,  here  is  the  picture  reproduced  in  these  pages, 
and,  looking  at  it  dispassionately,  with  the  accrued  ex- 
perience which  the  lapse  of  thirty  years  has  brought, 
it  has,  with  all  its  faults,  certain  merits.  Above  all,  I 
am  glad  to  have  taken,  as  it  were,  the  bit  in  my  teeth, 
and  to  have  done  it  when  I  did;  for  I  take  my  case  to 
be  typical,  and  there  comes  to  every  earnest  student  a 
critical  moment  when  he  must  resume  in  a  work  of  his 
own  the  results  of  his  study;  and  this  he  can  best  do 
in  his  own  way,  free  from  the  direction  or  even  the  in- 
fluence which  up  to  that  point  he  has  wisely  obeyed. 
"The  time  comes  when  a  man  should  cease  prelusory 
gymnastic,  stand  up,  put  a  violence  on  his  will,  and, 
for  better  or  worse,  begin  the  business  of  creation."* 

After  its  appearance  in  the  Salon,  the  "Reverie"  was 
sent  home  in  the  following  year  and,  at  the  exhibition 
of  the  National  Academy  of  Design  in  the  spring  of  1877, 
bore  its  part  as  one  of  the  elements  of  disturbance 
which  resulted  in  the  formation  of  the  Society  of 
American  Artists,  whose  history  is  too  recent  and 
familiar  to  find  more  than  cursory  mention  in  these 
pages.  Of  even  greater  personal  import  to  the  writer, 
however,  is  the  remembrance  that  this  picture  led 
to  an  acquaintance  and  subsequent  friendship  with 
Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  whose  death,  as  these  lines 
are  written,t  closes  a  career  that,  more  than  that  of 
any  American  artist,  has  been  glorious  in  the  truest 
sense;  but  whose  eminence  counts  for  less,  to  those 
who  knew  and  loved  him,  than  the  irreparable  loss  of 
a  true  friend. 

*  "  Fontaineblcau — Village  Communities  of  Painters,"  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son. 

t  August  3,  1907. 


XIV 
MONTIGNY  AND  GREZ,   SUMMER  OF  '76 

WITH  a  lack  of  logic  for  which  a  kind  destiny 
has  exacted  no  penalty,  an  improvidence  that 
now  that  "the  grizzling  pate  the  brain  doth 
clear,"  I  might  be  inclined  to  score  severely — if  called 
upon  to  advise  the  young — I  had  sought  in  the  autumn 
of  '75  to  simpHfy  my  problematical  future  by  taking 
me  a  wife.  The  lady  whose  spirit,  then  and  since,  was 
equal  to  the  paradox  of  affronting  a  minimum  of  re- 
sources with  a  maximum  of  courage,  proved  at  once  to 
be  persona  grata  to  my  intimates.  Consequently  there 
was  no  cessation  of  camaraderie,  a  not  infrequent  ac- 
companiment to  love's  young  dream;  and  our  little 
circle  simply  opened  wider  to  admit  a  new  friend.  For 
a  short  time  the  youthful  menage  occupied  the  rooms  at 
Barbizon,  in  the  house  of  the  mother  Charlotte,  where 
one  of  them  had  lived  in  his  bachelor  days;  but,  after 
the  winter  in  Paris,  the  decision  was  taken  to  look  for  a 
place  in  the  country,  where  they  might  become  house- 
holders in  a  more  serious  sense. 

The  announced  intention  on  the  part  of  my  friends 
to  abandon  Barbizon  and  give  Grez  a  "serious  trial," 
led  us  to  the  other  side  of  the  forest,  and  at  Montigny- 
sur-Loing  a  modest  habitation,  built  on  the  river-bank, 
with  an  arbour  at  the  garden  end  that  overlooked  the 
water,  was  found. 

Montigny  is  but  a  couple  of  miles  from  Grez,  and  is 
on  the  same  river,  which  afforded  an  easy  means  of 

172 


MONTIGNY  AND  GREZ  173 

communication  for  the  canoes  of  my  friends,  and 
passage  between  the  two  villages  was  frequent.  The 
little  house  and  its  immediate  surroundings  suggested 
to  Stevenson  the  envoy  which  opens  "Underwoods": 

Go,  little  book,  and  wish  to  all 
Flowers  in  the  garden,  meat  in  the  hall; 
A  bin  of  wine,  a  spice  of  wit, 
A  house  with  lawns  enclosing  it; 
A  li\ing  river  by  the  door, 
A  nightingale  in  the  sycamore. 

Even  more  descriptive,  and  equally  poetic,  is  his  prose 
reference  in  the  essay  on  "  Fontainebleau — Village 
Communities  of  Painters." 

"Montigny  has  been  somewhat  strangely  neglected; 
I  never  knew  it  inhabited  but  once,  when  Will  H.  Low 
installed  himself  there  with  a  barrel  of  piquette,  and 
entertained  his  friends  in  a  leafy  treUis  above  the  weir, 
in  sight  of  the  green  country  and  to  the  music  of  the 
falling  water.  It  was  a  most  airy,  quaint,  and  pleasant 
place  of  residence,  just  too  rustic  to  be  stagey;  and 
from  my  memories  of  the  place  in  general,  and  that 
garden  trellis  in  particular — at  morning,  visited  by 
birds,  or  at  night,  when  the  dew  fell  and  the  stars  were 
of  the  party — I  am  inclined  to  think  perhaps  too  favour- 
ably of  the  future  of  Montigny." 

Montigny  has  had  its  future,  this  little  house  changed 
and  enlarged  is  now  a  riverside  inn,  many  villas  have 
been  built  and  a  new  generation  of  artists  come  and  go. 
The  place,  like  Grez,  suffers  from  obvious  picturesque- 
ness — compositions  ready  made  are  found  on  every 
hand  and  impart  a  superficial  look  to  work  done  there — 


174      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

but  it  has  its  quiet  charm,  and  the  Hmpid  river  framed 
in  graceful  trees,  played  a  pleasant  accompaniment  that 
summer  to  our  merry  gatherings  around  the  table  spread 
in  the  arbour.  Here  one  day  our  dejeuner  was  pleas- 
antly interrupted,  when  a  bevy  of  choir-boys,  dressed 
in  white  and  scarlet,  filed  into  the  house,  sprinkling  its 
walls  with  holy  water,  singing  an  old  chant  of  the 
church  to  call  down  blessings  on  our  home.  It  was  the 
month  of  May,  and  from  house  to  house  in  the  village 
the  little  procession  proceeded,  in  accordance  with  an 
old  custom — a  custom  with  which  the  master  of  the 
house  was  unfortunately  unfamiliar — for,  conscious  that 
some  reward  was  expected,  he  enthusiastically  parted 
with  one  of  his  rare  five-franc  pieces,  when  a  largesse  of 
a  few  sous  or  half-a-dozen  eggs,  one  of  the  boys  carrying 
a  basket  to  receive  such  gifts,  was  all  that  was  habitual. 
The  barrel  of  light  wine,  the  piquette  which  Steven- 
son remembered,  was  also  the  occasion  of  enlightening 
the  neophyte  householder  on  the  manners  and  customs 
of  the  country.  This  petit  vin,  so  light  that  it  would 
hardly  bear  transportation  to  the  next  village,  was  an 
ideal  beverage  for  the  summer  months.  It  was  grown 
on  the  hills  near  the  village,  and  learning  that  one  of 
my  neighbours  had  a  surplus  in  store,  I  promptly  entered 
into  negotiation  with  him.  It  was  not  an  important 
financial  transaction,  for  the  huge  barrel,  containing  two 
hundred  and  twenty  Htres,  cost  but  fifty  francs — less 
than  ten  dollars.  This  amount  I  had  paid,  when  I 
learned  that  there  was  a  duty  of  three  francs  fifty 
centimes  exacted  by  the  government  for  the  transfer 
from  the  vintner's  cellar  to  mine.  This  I  contended 
should  be  paid  by  the  dealer  and  not  by  the  purchaser, 


Irom  the  arbcnir  overhanging  the  river  at 
Montignv-sur-Loing 


MONTIGNY  AND   GREZ  175 

and  stood  my  ground  firmly.  At  last  in  our  long  dis- 
cussion, my  peasant  neighbour  inquired  darkly  if  I 
went  to  bed  late;  if  by  any  chance  I  was  up  as  late  as 
ten  o'clock  ?  Mystified,  I  replied  that  I  was  frequently 
awake  at  that  hour.  "Very  well,  in  that  case  wait  this 
evening,  the  wine  will  be  delivered." 

With  a  guilty  premonition  of  transgressing  the  laws 
of  the  country  whose  hospitality  I  enjoyed,  I  waited 
that  evening,  when,  shortly  before  the  appointed  hour, 
there  arose  in  the  quiet  street  before  my  door  a  noise  of 
iron  wheels  ringing  clear  on  the  paved  descent,  and  the 
sound  of  many  voices.  Opening  the  door  cautiously, 
I  saw  a  group  of  six  or  eight  surrounding  my  barrel  of 
ptquette,  which  was  being  conveyed  to  my  door  on  a 
clumsily  constructed  hand-wagon.  All  was  clearly  vis- 
ible in  the  moonlight,  and  the  clamour,  like  that  which 
accompanies  any  form  of  manual  labor  in  France,  was 
calculated  to  be  heard  by  the  prefect  of  the  department 
of  Seine  et  Marne,  many  miles  away,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  gendarmerie  resident  in  the  village.  With  visions 
of  fines  and  possible  imprisonment  for  my  collusion 
with  crime,  I  adjured  the  volunteer  helpers  of  my  dealer 
in  wine  to  keep  silent;  and  at  last  with  manylurchings 
the  great  cask  was  conveyed  across  the  little  open  court 
and  placed  on  the  threshold  of  the  door.  It  was  still 
plainly,  flagrantly  visible  to  the  vigilant  eyes  of  the  law. 
Justice  seemed  strangely  somnolent  in  Montigny  that 
night,  for  my  fellow  criminals  desisted  at  once  from 
their  labours,  lit  their  pipes,  and  were  apparently  con- 
tent to  leave  the  incriminating  evidence  of  our  evasion 
of  the  excise  tax  in  full  view. 

I,  still  apprehensive,  begged  them  to  get  the  cask  in- 


176       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

side  the  house  where  it  would  be  concealed  from  sight, 
but  was  at  once  reassured:  " Soyez  iranquille,  Monsieur; 
we  know  the  law,  all  the  excise  officers  and  all  the 
gendarmes  in  France  might  come  now  and  they  would 
have  nothing  to  say.  Your  wine  is  within  your  door, 
and  how  it  got  there  is  nobody's  affair."  After  a  brief 
rest,  the  cask  was  finally  landed  in  a  corner  of  the  hall 
under  the  stairs,  where,  after  a  few  days,  in  order  that 
the  wine  might  clarify,  it  was  broached  and  drawn  from 
the  spigot  by  great  pitcherfuls.  It  slaked  many  a 
parched  throat  throughout  the  summer. 

Meanwhile  in  Grez  the  Anglo-Saxon  was  In  full 
possession  of  Chevillon's  inn,  to  a  much  greater  de- 
gree than  Barbizon  ever  knew.  Not  only  the  men  who 
first  "discovered"  Grez,  but  others,  brought  to  the 
quiet  inn  the  clamour  of  our  English  tongue,  and  a 
freedom  of  manners  and  customs  that  escapes  geo- 
graphical definition.  This  independence  of  conduct,  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  rural  population,  they  main- 
tained at  all  times;  ignoring  completely  the  usages 
which,  rude  and  simple  as  they  are,  centuries  have  im- 
posed on  the  orderly  country.  The  view  of  a  stalwart 
gentleman  clad  in  a  straw  hat,  bathing  trunks  and 
bathing  sandals  as  his  only  wear,  traversing  the  village 
streets  on  his  way  to  the  bureau  de  tahac  was  not  unusual; 
and  at  first  must  have  rudely  shaken  the  local  ideas  of 
the  convenances.  Behind  the  inn,  in  the  long  garden 
stretching  to  the  river,  the  table  was  spread,  and  here  a 
score  or  more  would  be  seated  for  the  mid-day  meal,  in 
this  lightest  of  costumes,  fresh  from  a  dip  in  the  river. 
When,  as  rarely  occurred,  a  chance  visitor  of  Gallic 
strain  happened  there,  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  wondered  if 


The  village  street  at  Grez 


MONTIGNY  AND   GREZ  177 

he  was  still  in  France,  and,  puzzled  by  this  foreign 
variety  of  the  laisser  aller  common  enough  in  other 
guises,  which  he  could  understand,  in  artist  inns  fre- 
quented by  his  own  compatriots,  soon  departed. 

They  were  largely  amphibious,  and  with  a  devotion 
to  "exercise"  which  worked  havoc  to  the  arts,  the 
canoes  multiplied,  and  the  river  up  and  down  was 
explored,  as  I  venture  to  say  it  had  never  been  since 
it  first  took  its  interrupted  course  to  the  sea.  Tubs 
were  also  put  into  requisition  and  races  were  organized, 
the  competitors  standing  with  double  paddles  urging 
their  uncontrollable  vessels  to  a  goal,  upsetting  at 
frequent  intervals,  regaining  their  unwieldly  craft,  and 
at  last,  amid  shrieks  of  derision,  swimming  ashore. 
Henry  Enfield  shone  in  these  contests,  and  on  the  walls 
of  the  inn  there  yet  remains  an  immortal  work  of 
mine  where  he  is  depicted  upon  an  insecure  footing 
in  his  tub,  his  blond  beard  dripping  like  that  of  a  very 
Neptune,  but  his  monocle  still  intact,  as  he  was  often 
seen  that  summer. 

If  this  predilection  for  water,  the  foreign  tongue  in 
which  they  conversed,  and  other  outlandish  habits  bred 
a  behef  that  the  inn  and  the  village  had  been  invaded 
by  savages,  the  hostess  of  the  inn,  good  Madame 
Chevillon,  very  shortly  learned  that  their  good  nature 
and  high  spirits  were  infectious  and  their  habits  cf 
bathing  harmless,  except  possibly  to  themselves,  so 
her  strange  guests  soon  won  her  favour,  and  in  due 
time,  though  the  village  politely  refused  to  express  open 
approval,  their  presence  was  more  than  tolerated. 

So  strong  indeed  was  the  influence  of  our  language, 
heard  on  every  side,   that  the  children  of  the  village 


178      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

caught  the  refrain  of  one  of  the  songs  the  strangers 
sang,  and  it  was  a  not  uncommon  occurrence  to  hear 
them  along  the  village  street  singing: 

John  Brown's  body  lies  mouldering  in  the  ground, 
As  we  go  marching  along, 

the  air  correctly  given,  the  words  meaningless,  of 
course,  to  them,  pronounced  with  the  drollest  of  ac- 
cents. The  youngest  of  the  strangers,  Lloyd  Osbourne, 
then  a  boy  of  eight  or  ten,  was  the  playmate  of  these 
children  and,  as  his  vocabulary  in  their  tongue  was 
limited,  he  once  announced  the  capture  of  a  minnow 
in  a  convenient  mixture  of  the  two  languages.  Re- 
turning there  a  few  years  ago,  a  grown  man  of  thirty 
odd,  and  making  his  identity  known,  he  was  at  once 
greeted:  "Mon  Dieu!  how  you  have  grown,  and  so 
you  are  ^le  petit  feesh^?" 

To-day,  though  these  actors  have  seen  the  curtain 
rung  down  and  their  troupe  dispersed,  their  little 
comedy  is  still  pleasantly  remembered  by  the  older 
inhabitants  of  the  village,  which  has  resumed  since 
many  years  the  even  tenor  of  its  way.  There  are  still 
two  or  three  English  or  American  residents — men  who 
have  lingered  from  the  earlier  time- — but  at  the  inn  the 
influx  of  foreigners  has  ceased,  and  Grez  as  an  artist 
community  has  had  its  day,  even  as  Giverny,  of  later 
popularity,  is  now  deserted  by  our  compatriots  in 
favour  of  Etaples  or  Montreuil. 

During  the  summer  of  '76  I  was  a  mere  supernu- 
merary in  the  company  and  saw  comparatively  little  of 
Grez.  I  had  assumed  new  responsibilities  and  was 
working  with  serious  purpose  to  burst  the  bonds  of  the 


MONTIGNY  AND  GREZ  179 

student  and  to  become  a  full-fledged  and,  above  all,  a 
self-supporting  artist.  This  was  no  light  task,  but  the 
rigour  of  my  undertaking  was  considerably  lightened 
by  the  companionship  of  my  friends. 

Our  house  at  Montigny  was  a  convenient  port  of  call 
by  the  waterway,  and  the  route  overland  was  scarcely 
longer,  so  that  nearly  every  day  we  entertained  our 
friends.  Here  under  the  leafy  trellis  gathered  round 
the  sun-chequered  table  we  held  long  symposiums,  the 
subject  of  art  ever  uppermost. 

One  such  discussion  with  Bob  remains  fresh  in  my 
memory,  through  the  curious  confirmation  of  a  chance 
affirmation  in  our  table-talk  by  after  events.  True  to 
his  love  of  realism,  he  was  good  enough  to  approve  of 
some  out-of-door  work  I  had  shown  him,  advising  me 
strongly  "  to  stick  to  that  and  drop  my  decorative  game." 
He  further  insisted  that  outside  of  France,  where  the 
government  kept  it  alive,  the  art  of  the  decorator  had 
no  scope  "except  on  pottery  and  dinner-plates,"  and 
cited  the  rather  unfortunate  official  attempt  to  decorate 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  in  England  years  before. 
Less  from  a  spirit  of  prophecy  than  from  a  genial  desire 
to  disagree  with  my  friend — though  in  justice  to  my- 
self, even  in  those  early  days  I  had  a  sincere  conviction 
that  the  painter  is  never  more  nobly  employed  than  in 
covering  large  wall  spaces — I  took  an  opposite  view. 

I  had  in  favour  of  my  contention  Baudry's  recent 
work  for  the  new  Opera,  and  the  project,  then  in  course 
of  execution,  of  decorating  the  Pantheon,  which,  though 
I  did  not  at  the  time  know  it,  was  to  give  us  the  follow- 
ing year  Puvis  de  Chavannes'  superb  series  of  panels. 
Warmed  by  my  argument  my  fancy  took  a  bolder  flight, 


180      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


and  I  described  to  my  friend  our  newer  country,  re- 
newed all  the  stock  arguments  about  the  coexistence 
of  commercial  progress  journeying  westward  hand-in- 
hand  with  art,  and  boldly  prophesied  that  when  the 
day  to  build  our  civic  monuments  came,  the  painter 
and  the  sculptor  would  share  with  the  architect  the 
task  of  expressing  our  national  glory.  I  fancy  that  I 
was  eloquent;  I  know  that  I  let  the  eagle  scream  to 
the  full  extent  of  his  vocal  organs;  but  the  British  lion, 
at  the  time,  was  in  no  wise  daunted.  Many  years 
after  Bob  reverted  to  this  talk  when,  in  his  capacity  as 
a  critic  in  London,  he  had  become  cognizant  of  the 
quasi-renascence  of  mural  painting,  not  only  in  France 
and  England,  but  of  its  even  more  considerable  de- 
velopment, considering  the  conditions,  in  this  country. 
He  showed  some  curiosity  to  know  why  I  had  so 
strongly  drawn  my  picture  of  the  future,  and  seemed 
disappointed  to  learn  that  an  innate  desire  to  see  some 
such  accomplishment,  rather  than  an  intelligent  per- 
ception of  conditions  that  would  lead  to  such  a  result, 
was  the  base  of  my  contention. 

The  annals  of  this  summer  would  not  be  complete 
without  a  description  of  a  visit  paid  us  by  Gaudez  and 
Codes. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  had  gone  to  the  adjoining 
town  of  Nemours  for  a  day's  marketing,  and  the  master, 
returning  from  painting  in  the  fields,  intent  upon  a 
solitary  lunch,  was  met  upon  the  threshold  by  the 
maid-of-all-work  apparently  in  a  state  of  great  alarm. 
"Ah!  Monsieur,  how  relieved  I  am  to  see  you.  Figure 
to  yourself  two  strangers,  gentlemen  whom  I  have 
never  seen,  have  been  here,  have  insisted  on  entering 


springtime,  iMontigny-sur-Loing,  1S7O 

From  the  painting  by  W.  H.  L«w,  in  the  collection  of  Sir  George  Drummond, 

Montreal 


MONTIGNY  AND  GREZ  181 

the  house,  have  made  themselves  at  home,  have  taken 
off  their  hats,  coats,  and  waistcoats,  left  them  on  a 
chair,  as  you  can  see,  and  have  gone  away." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  I  looked  up  the  street,  and 
saw  approaching  my  two  Paris  comrades,  strangely 
clad.  Each  w^ore  rough  straw  hats  such  as  the 
peasants  use,  blue  blouses  shining  new  in  stiff  folds 
enveloped  their  bodies,  and  they  clattered  along  in 
large  sabots,  meanwhile  carrying  their  city  shoes 
dangling  by  their  strings.  With  a  truly  French  sense  of 
appropriateness  of  costum.e  they  had,  on  finding  their 
friends  absent,  employed  their  time  by  visiting  the 
village  emporium  and  decking  themselves  in  a  uniform 
suitable  for  the  simple  life  of  the  country.  They  were 
warmly  welcomed,  and  there  ensued  a  week  literally 
devoted  to  laughter — rare  even  in  a  life  that  has  liber- 
ally accepted  Figaro's  injunction  to  "hasten  to  laugh — 
to  avoid  tears." 

What  we  did,  beyond  a  number  of  usual  pleasant 
excursions  on  the  river,  and  to  the  more  distant  forest, 
where  we  picnicked  at  the  Mare  aux  Fees,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  describe,  as  I  find  to  be  so  many  baffling 
memories  of  days  that  seemed  eventful.  There  are, 
however,  certain  natures  that  act  as  a  foil  to  each  other, 
and  such  were  those  possessed  by  my  friends.  The 
solemnly  humorous  mask  of  Codes  and  the  richly 
coloured  sensuous  face  of  Gaudez,  ofrered  no  greater 
contrast  than  the  wise  satiric  utterances  of  the  first, 
opposed  to  the  bonhomie,  with  a  Rabelaisian  touch, 
of  the  other. 

The  simple  enjoyment  of  the  country,  which  is  a 
national  trait  of  the  French,  undoubtedly  contributed 


182      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

much  to  a  most  enjoyable  week.  It  may  appear 
puerile  that  two  grown  and  grave  men  should  pass  an 
afternoon  in  avowed  parody  of  their  Anglo-Saxon 
friends,  in  racing,  their  wooden  shoes  laden  with 
pebbles  to  give  them  stability,  upon  the  river  back  of 
the  garden;  but  from  this  infantile  play  they — and 
others — managed  to  extract  as  much  amusement  as 
from  more  "grown-up"  contests. 

Our  maid-of-all-work  contributed  an  unwitting  share 
to  our  gayety.  Alexandrine,  as  she  was  fittingly  named 
— possessing  feet  twice  as  long  as  a  hexameter — was  a 
sad  coquette.  Principles  she  had,  protesting  over 
much,  but  beauty  had  been  denied  her  to  quite  an 
extraordinary  degree.  Some  simple  courtesy  on  the 
part  of  Codes,  common  enough  in  a  country  where 
servants  are  treated  as  one  of  the  family,  had  been  mis- 
interpreted by  her  susceptibility,  and  she  had,  in  her 
most  coquettish  manner,  given  my  friend  to  under- 
stand that  she  was  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Stifling  his 
surprise.  Codes  at  once  adopted  an  air  of  respectful 
adoration  that,  for  the  remainder  of  his  stay,  kept  the 
ancient  and  ill-favoured  maiden  in  a  continual  flutter. 
Our  cuisine^  fortunately,  did  not  suff'er  from  this,  for, 
after  the  manner  of  her  kind,  she  wooed  her  adorer  by 
succulent  dishes  by  which  we  all  profited.  When  our 
friends  had  departed  it  took  some  days  before  our 
handmaiden  descended  from  the  pinnacle  of  her  rosy 
dreams,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  whenever -a 
letter  was  received  from  Codes,  it  contained  a  madrigal 
to  the  address  of  Alexandrine,  which  I  fear  constantly 
failed  to  reach  its  destination. 

Gaudez,  whose  jocose  disposition  never  trifled  with 


MONTIGNY  AND  GREZ  183 

the  subject  of  art — I  have  seen  him  more  than  once 
skilfully  descend  from  the  heights  of  the  most  palpable 
absurdity  and  instantly  assume  a  firm  footing  in  the 
field  of  illuminative  criticism — was  of  great  comfort  to 
me  in  resolving  the  doubts  that  Bob's  influence  had 
created.  "  Paint  what  you  see  about  you,"  he  coun- 
selled; "situated  as  you  are,  that  is  the  best  that  you 
can  do,  but  by  no  means  limit  your  future  undertaking 
to  that.  The  artist  is  more  than  a  recorder  of  things 
seen  under  local  and  accidental  conditions,  that  more 
often  than  not  confuse  and  destroy  their  veritable 
character.  The  wave  of  photographic  realism  will 
spend  itself  sooner  or  later,  and  then  the  artist  of 
imaginative  force,  nourished  by  the  study  of  nature, 
will  come  to  the  fore.  True  art  is  a  method  of  expres- 
sion, done  by  a  gentleman  who  has  something  to  say 
{' un  Monsieur  qui  a  quelque  chose  a  dire'),  in  poetry  or 
prose,  paint  or  clay." 


XV 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END 

THOUGH  not  living  in  Grez,  much  of  it  I  saw  and 
part  of  it  I  was,  not  infrequently,  for  no  better 
conclusion  to  a  day's  work  could  be  had  than  the 
pleasant  walk  thither,  above  the  river  bank  and  past 
the  mill.  At  the  crowded  table  places  would  be  made 
for  the  newcomers,  and  a  part  of  interest  fell  to  their 
share  in  all  the  trivial  concerns  that  made  up  the  life, 
apart  from  the  leaven  of  work,  of  the  sojourners  of 
Chevillon's  inn.  Nor  less  enjoyable  was  the  walk 
homeward  through  the  stilled  fields,  for  the  bevy  of 
insects  that  give  night  a  voice  with  us,  is  not  usual  in 
France.  Nor  do  they  have  the  firefly  zigzagging 
through  the  shadows,  an  airy  image  of  our  restless 
activity;  but  in  its  place  the  fainter  phosphorescence 
of  the  glowworm  gleams  persistently  upon  the  borders 
of  the  hedge-rows. 

Young  peasant  girls  in  play  often  arrange  these  in  a 
circle  on  their  heads,  and  I  remember,  on  our  way 
home  from  Grez  one  evening,  meeting  one  such,  a 
slim,  pretty  creature,  advancing  through  the  gloom 
crowned  by  a  coronet  dimly  bright. 

One  evening,  arriving  thus  at  Grez,  when  the  com- 
pany was  already  seated,  we  took  our  places  near 
Bob,  quite  at  the  end  of  the  table.  Looking  toward 
the  opposite  end,  I  was  surprised  to  see  two  new  faces — 
the  faces  of  women.     In  answer  to  my  query  as  to 

184 


THE   BEGINNING  OF  THE   END        185 

their  identity,  Bob  informed  me  that  they  were  my 
compatriots,  CaHfornians,  art  students,  and  friends  of 
one  of  the  men  with  whom  my  own  acquaintance  was 
slight.  They  were  mother  and  daughter,  I  was  told, 
though  in  appearance  more  like  sisters;  the  elder, 
slight,  with  delicately  moulded  features  and  vivid  eyes 
gleaming  from  under  a  mass  of  dark  hair;  the  younger 
of  more  robust  type,  in  the  first  precocious  bloom  of 
womanhood.  I  was  gratefully  conscious  that  my  own 
infraction  of  the  unwritten  law,  that  had  held  woman 
apart  from  our  circle,  had  been  quickly  pardoned,  but 
I  was  equally  conscious  that  our  continued  welcome 
therein  was  due  to  the  possession  on  our  part  of  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  tact — a  quality,  as  my  friend  Bob  had  in- 
formed the  insufferable  cad  at  Barbizon,  more  necessary 
in  such  a  society  than  in  one  more  formal  in  its  customs. 

Questioning  Bob,  on  this  delicate  subject,  I  was  at 
once  assured  that  the  newcomers  were  "of  the  right 
sort";  that  they  had  quietly  taken  their  places  and 
shared  the  life  led  around  them  with  easy  toleration; 
joining  in  some  of  its  activities  and  avoiding  others  in 
very  sensible  fashion. 

It  seems  curious  to  me  to-day  to  think  how  little 
during  the  remainder  of  the  summer  was  my  acquaint- 
ance with  these  ladies,  for,  as  wife  and  stepdaughter, 
they  were  to  become  so  closely  identified  with  the  life 
of  Louis  Stevenson;  the  one  by  the  tie  of  which  he 
wrote:  "As  I  look  back,  I  think  my  marriage  was  the 
best  move  I  ever  made  in  my  life,"  and  the  other,  as 
faithful  amanuensis,  taking  down  his  last  message  to 
the  world.  Louis  was  absent  from  Grez  at  the  time, 
and  none  of  us  present  at  the  table  that  night  could 


186      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

know  what  the  future  held  in  store;  and  so  it  was, 
in  after  years,  under  our  roof  in  Paris,  that  we  were 
to  meet  more  intimately  and  cement  a  friendship  which 
has  outlasted  the  Hfe  of  the  husband  and  friend  around 
whom  our  affection  centred. 

At  the  time  it  was  natural  enough,  as  Mrs.  Low 
then  ignored  my  native  language.  Consequently,  the 
conversation,  when  she  was  present,  was  carried  on  in 
the  idiom  of  France,  and  at  the  other  end  of  the  table 
English  was  in  use  for  the  same  reason,  as  it  was  in 
that  alone  that  the  ladies  there  were  fluent. 

As  I  have  said,  Louis  was  not  at  Grez  for  some  little 
time  after  the  advent  of  the  woman  for  whom  he  was 
to  dare  so  much,  to  receive  in  turn  such  entire  devo- 
tion, and  to  leave  in  prose  and  verse,  as  in  his  uttered 
words  to  all  his  intimates,  a  tribute  such  as  few  women 
have  been  privileged  to  receive. 

He  had  been  absentfor  some  little  time  on  a  visit  home 
that  summer,  for  I  think  that  his  biographer,  Graham 
Balfour,  is  mistaken  in  placing  the  meeting  between 
Stevenson  and  his  future  wife  at  the  time:  "when 
Stevenson  and  Sir  Walter  Simpson,  the  'Arethusa' 
and  the  'Cigarette,'  returned  from  the  Inland  Voyage 
to  their  quarters  at  Grez." 

He  was  with  us  at  Montigny  in  the  spring  and  early 
in  the  summer,  but  in  the  "Letters"  (pp.  132-133, 
Vol.  I)  I  find  letters  dated  from  Swanston  Cottage, 
Lothianburn,  in  July.  This  coincides  with  my  recol- 
lection, for  about  this  time  I  was  called  to  Paris  by  the 
necessities  of  my  work.  I  had  a  picture  under  way 
for  which  I  needed  a  model  unprocurable  at  Montigny, 
and  for  a  month  I  was  at  work  in  the  city. 


THE   BEGINNING  OF  THE   END       187 

It  was  during  this  period  that  I  remember  Louis 
coming  to  Paris,  and  I  recall  his  start  of  surprise  and 
alarm  as,  among  the  events  that  had  transpired  during 
his  absence  from  Grez,  I  reported  the  invasion  of  the 
theretofore  Eve-less  Paradise. 

I  gave  him  what  comfort  I  could,  based  on  the  in- 
formation I  had  received  from  Bob,  aided  by  my  own 
observation  of  the  general  air  of  contentment  that 
appeared  to  reign  on  the  border  of  the  river  Loing; 
and  assured  him  that  he  would  find  life  there  but 
little  changed.  All  this  seemed  to  avail  but  little  to 
lighten  the  comic  apprehension  of  the  professed  woman- 
hater.  "It's  the  beginning  of  the  end,"  he  averred — 
little  knowing  how  truly,  nor  in  what  sense  of  the 
truth,  he  spoke. 

Of  the  events  of  the  next  few  weeks  I  was  not  a 
witness,  but  on  my  return  to  the  little  house  at  Mon- 
tigny,  and  on  my  subsequent  visits  to  Grez,  an  inkling 
of  the  state  of  affairs,  in  so  far  as  my  friend  was  con- 
cerned, dawned  on  me.  Soon  after  Louis  and  Walter 
Simpson  departed  on  the  Inland  Voyage,  in  early 
autumn,  the  house  at  Montigny  was  closed,  and  on 
our  return  to  Paris,  when  later  in  the  season  Louis 
appeared,  his  daily  pilgrimages  from  our  quarter  to 
the  heights  of  Montmartre  told  the  story  clearly,  and 
for  male  companionship  Bob  and  I  were  left  alone. 

As  has  been  made  manifest  throughout  this  recital, 
project — compared  with  accomplishment — occupied  a 
disproportionate  place  in  the  activities  of  our  circle. 
So  paradoxical,  indeed,  were  the  conditions  under 
which  we  lived,  that  it  seems  almost  logical  that  the 
most  absurd  of  these   projects  should  have  come  the 


188      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

nearest  to  realization.  Its  full  history  can  never  be 
written,  since  its  master  projectors  are  all  gone;  but 
here  and  there  in  Stevenson's  writings  there  are  slight 
references  to  the  scheme,  and  as  its  birth  took  place  in 
the  leafy  arbour  of  our  garden  at  Montigny,  I  may 
add  my  quota  to  its  important  history. 

The  conversation  had  turned  upon  what  I  may  call 
fixed  charges.  Bob  held  that  a  gentleman,  possessed 
of  the  requisite  coin,  could  eat  his  dinner  in  comfort 
because  the  hour  of  payment  was  close  at  hand;  but 
that  many  other  periods  of  settlement,  for  value  re- 
ceived, were  so  remote  that  it  was  but  natural  that 
one,  with  a  brain  occupied  with  other  and  more  im- 
portant matters,  should  forget  these  recurring  periods, 
dispose  of  his  substance  otherwise,  and  find  himself  at 
the  end  without  what  "you  Americans  call  'stamps,'" 
to  pay  his  just  debts.  He  accepted  the  correction  that 
the  system  of  long  credits  had  worked  beneficently  in 
the  case  of  innkeepers  in  the  country;  but,  in  con- 
trast, cited  the  Paris  landlord,  who  was  deplorably 
deficient  in  the  virtues  that  had  so  endeared  the  Sirons 
and  the  Chevillons  to  our  little  band. 

The  remedy,  however,  he  continued,  he  had  evolved, 
after  giving  the  subject  much  thought,  and,  hke  many 
other  solutions  of  knotty  problems,  it  was  extremely 
simple.  "In  the  first  place,  the  requirements  of  a 
decent  habitation  called  for  water  near  at  hand.  The 
land  was  overcrowded,  and  the  acquisition  of  realty 
and  the  subsequent  bricks  and  mortar  were  not  only 
expensive  operations,  but,  if  accomplished,  and  your 
house  paid  for,  you  would  always  be  tied  down  to 
one  place  like  a  mere  banker." 


c    -5 

~       C 


-a 
c 


THE   BEGINNING  OF  THE   END       189 

On  the  other  hand,  the  waterways  were  free,  and  a 
slight  charge  of  demurrage,  when  you  wished  to  stay 
for  a  period  in  one  place,  would  hardly  count.  Barges 
were  often  owned  by  canal-boatmen,  a  class  that  was 
notoriously  as  impecunious  as  artists  and  writers;  and, 
consequently,  a  barge,  conveniently  fitted  up  as  a 
place  of  residence,  would  be  well  within  the  means  of 
these  last.  Thus,  in  the  fruitful  brain  of  Bob,  the 
project  had  conception  and,  by  his  prolific  elaboration 
of  details,  the  embryonic  idea  grew  until  it  looked  to 
us  all  as  though  it  might  live.  No  one,  for  that  matter, 
could  be  more  industrious  than  my  friend,  when  it 
came  to  the  patient  building  up  of  something  probable 
upon  the  airy  foundation  of  the  impossible. 

I  remember  an  even  more  ingenious  scheme  for 
avoiding  the  fogs  of  London,  of  which  he  wrote  in 
later  years:  "We  live  wrapt  in  Cimmerian  gloom. 
Fogs  as  dense  as  gruel  hang  above  the  city.  Painting 
is  impossible.  Gas  goes  all  day.  All  rational  pursuits 
are  interdicted  and  alcoholic  intoxication  is  the  sole 
recreation  suitable  to  this  condition  of  things."  The 
simple  solution  of  this  problem  was  to  be  found  in  an 
artistic  colony,  living  and  pursuing  its  avocations  in 
captive  balloons,  high  above  the  strata  of  fog! 

The  barge  project  was  more  seriously  studied,  and, 
even  in  the  face  of  failure,  it  has  its  possibilities  which 
I  generously  pass  on  to  the  present  generation  of 
dreamers. 

Maps  were  consulted  and  canal  and  river  routes 
over  the  greater  part  of  Europe  were  laid  out;  the  cost 
of  wharfage  in  Paris  and  various  cities  was  learned, 
and  the  charges  for  towing  barges  were  inquired  into. 


190      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

Visits  to  various  shipyards  and  centres  of  construction 
were  made,  and  figures  tabulated,  that  were  so  men- 
daciously encouraging  that  the  avoidance  of  this 
superior  manner  of  residence,  by  the  majority  of  man- 
kind, was  difficult  to  understand.  We  were  all  in- 
tensely interested,  I,  who  had  absolutely  no  available 
capital,  no  less  than  the  others.  These  calculations 
occupied  Bob  during  the  summer  at  Grez,  but  after 
the  return  of  Louis  and  Simpson  from  the  "Inland 
Voyage,"  their  practical  study  of  the  subject  along  the 
canals  they  had  traversed  was  pressed  into  service. 

Simpson,  who  had  not  only  the  most  practical  mind, 
but  was  the  only  one  at  all  liberally  supplied  with 
money,  suggested  the  formation  of  a  limited  partner- 
ship, each  member  contributing  an  equal  amount  for 
the  purchase  and  fitting  up  of  a  suitable  barge. 

The  winter  passed  with  the  project  still  in  our  minds, 
but  it  was  not  until  the  summer  of  1877  that  the  barge 
was  purchased;  one  that  was  almost,  if  not  entirely, 
new,  never  having  served  to  carry  coal  or  other  cargo 
that  would  render  its  hold  difficult  to  transform  into 
habitable  living  quarters.  Of  the  manner  of  its  pur- 
chase I  remember  Httle,  having  two  excellent  reasons 
for  non-participation  in  any  transaction  of  that  nature, 
the  first  of  which  was  my  inability  to  bear  my  share  of 
the  expense.  The  project  of  having  a  fairly  large  com- 
pany who  would  live  on  the  barge  at  intervals,  dividing 
their  time  of  occupation,  had  been  voted  down,  and  the 
eventual  ownership  was  vested  in  four  persons:  Bob, 
Louis,  Simpson,  and  Enfield.  My  second  reason  for 
remaining  outside  of  the  society  was  that  it  was  essen- 
tially an  enterprise  for  the  unmarried;    but,  while  in 


THE    BEGINNING  OF  THE   END        191 

substance  this  was  held  to  be  sufficient  to  excuse  a 
continued  stay,  my  friends  one  and  all  insisted  that  as 
it  was  to  be  their  permanent  home,  a  guest  room  was 
a  primal  necessity.  Moreover,  it  was  proposed  that  the 
guest  room  should  harbour  married  couples  of  good 
repute  and  congenial  nature;  and,  to  ensure  my  asso- 
ciation with  the  enterprise,  this  room,  to  be  known 
as  the  "bridal  chamber,"  should  be  decorated  by  my 
hand. 

It  was  even  decided  that  the  work  which  I  should 
thus  execute,  was  to  be  taken  in  lieu  of  a  material  con- 
tribution to  purchase  my  membership  in  the  associa- 
tion. 

"Pink  cupids  rolling  around  on  pink  clouds  and 
that  sort  of  ruck,  the  Boucher  or  Fragonard  game," 
was  Bob's  cheerful  suggestion;  while  Louis  opined  in 
favour  of  nothing  less  than  a  modern  version  of  the 
"Voyage  to  Cythera"  by  Watteau. 

The  capacious  hold  of  the  barge  was  to  be  roofed 
over,  partially  with  glass,  the  whole  made  sufficiently 
low  to  pass  under  the  bridges  along  the  canals,  and  to 
be  in  sections,  so  that  it  could  be  taken  down  and 
awnings  substituted  in  fine  weather.  Rooms  were  to  be 
built  at  either  end — four  in  number;  the  existing  cabin 
at  the  stern  was  to  be  used  as  the  "bridal  chamber" — 
"flower-pots  in  the  stern  w^indows,"  suggested  one, 
"and  a  canary  in  a  cage,"  added  another,  thinking 
perhaps  of  his  visit  to  the  barge  on  the  Sambre  and 
Oise  canal.  A  large  room  was  to  be  left  in  the  centre 
to  serve  as  studio  and  lounging  room,  "with  lockers — 
plenty  of  lockers  to  store  things."  Trips  were  pro- 
jected:   "the  South  in  winter,  working  up  gradually  to 


192      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


Paris  for  the  opening  of  the  Salon";  perhaps  they 
could  moor  alongside  the  Cours  la  Reine  in  the  rear  of 
the  Palais  de  I'lndustrie  ? 

Thus  the  dream  acquired,  or  seemed  to  acquire, 
substance,  each  added  detail  making  it  appear  more 
and  more  plausible.  A  steam  launch,  the  gasohne 
variety  was  not  then  invented,  was  considered  as  a 
future  acquisition.  "Think  of  the  economy  of  tow- 
ino-,"  urged  the  arch-dreamer — until  even  now,  as  I 
recall  these  half-forgotten  elements  of  the  carefully 
elaborated  scheme,  it  seems  more  than  half  plausible. 

The  barge  in  truth  became  a  reality.  It  was  taken 
to  Moret,  a  river  town  near  Grez,  and  work  actually 
began  on  the  changes  by  which  it  was  to  emerge  from 
its  humble  condition  as  a  goods-carrier  to  a  more 
glorified  state;  when  it  would  be  freighted  w^ith  youth, 
ambition,  ideal  friendship  and  genius — or  at  least  with 
some  of  the  kindest  hearts,  if  not  the  wisest  heads,  in 
Europe. 

But  it  was  not  to  be;  "pink  cupids  on  pink  clouds," 
or  their  more  serious  prototypes,  were  already  busy 
with  some  of  us,  and  the  realities  of  hfe  were  closing  in 
on  us  all.  The  projected  "old  age  on  the  canals  of 
Europe,"  when  "we  should  be  seen  pottering  on  the 
deck  in  all  the  dignity  of  years,  our  white  beards  falling 
into  our  laps,"  affords  no  clue  to  the  after  experience 
of  the  puppets,  who  were  thus  allowed  their  merry 
May-day  dance  in  company;  only  to  be  torn  apart — 
each  dangling  at  the  end  of  his  separate  string — by  the 
hand  of  destiny. 

It  was  a  number  of  years  after  that  I  learned  the 
end  of  the  story  I  have  essayed  to  piece  together,  as  it 


THE    BEGINNING   OF  THE   END        193 

is  told  in  the  dedication  to  the  "Inland  Voyage." 
This  dedication,  to  the  address  of  Sir  Walter  Grindlay 
Simpson,  Bart.,  is,  for  some  reason  unknown  to  me, 
not  printed  in  the  definitive  editions — the  Edinburgh 
and  the  Thistle — of  Stevenson's  works,  though  it  is  one 
of  the  most  charming  of  his  felicitous  epistles  to  his 
friends.  Therefore  the  conclusion  of  the  episode  can 
be  told  in  better  words  than  mine. 

"That,  sir,  was  not  a  fortunate  day  when  we  pro- 
jected the  possession  of  a  canal  barge;  it  was  not  a 
fortunate  day  w^hen  we  shared  our  day-dream  with  the 
most  hopeful  of  day-dreamers.  For  a  while,  indeed, 
the  world  looked  smilingly.  The  barge  was  procured 
and  christened  and,  as  The  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins 
of  Cologne^  lay  for  some  months  the  admired  of  all 
admirers,  in  a  pleasant  river  and  under  the  walls  of  an 
ancient  town.  M.  Mattras,  the  accomplished  car- 
penter of  Moret,  had  made  her  a  centre  of  emulous 
labour,  and  you  will  not  have  forgotten  the  amount  of 
sweet  champagne  consumed  in  the  inn  at  the  bridge 
end,  to  give  zeal  to  the  workmen  and  speed  to  the 
work.  On  the  financial  aspect  I  would  not  willingly 
dwell.  The  Eleven  Thousand  Virgins  of  Cologne 
rotted  in  the  stream  where  she  was  beautified.  She 
felt  not  the  impulse  of  the  breeze;  she  was  never  har- 
nessed to  the  patient  track-horse.  And  when  at  length 
she  was  sold  by  the  indignant  carpenter  of  Moret, 
there  were  sold  along  with  her  the  Arethusa  and  the 
Cigarette,  she  of  cedar,  she,  as  we  knew  so  keenly  on  a 
portage,  of  solid-hearted  English  oak.  Now  these  his- 
toric vessels  fly  the  tricolour  and  are  known  by  new 
and  alien  names." 


XVI 

"YOUTH  NOW  FLEES  ON  FEATHERED  FOOT  " 

THE  autumn  of  '76  saw  the  end  of  the  constant 
companionship,  the  daily  meetings,  and  the 
material  identity  of  life  of  our  little  circle.  I 
was,  and  should  have  been,  the  last  to  complain,  for 
in  some  way  I  had  set  the  example,  and  found  com- 
pensation in  a  closer  tie  for  all  the  brave  joys  that  the 
friendships  of  youth  afford.  Louis  in  his  journeys  to 
and  from  a  strange  quarter,  for  it  is  curious  what 
a  terra  incognita  Montmartre  was  to  us  dwellers  on 
Mont  Parnasse  in  those  days,  was,  however,  the  most 
conspicuous  delinquent.  Not  that  there  was  any- 
thing changed  in  our  spirits  on  the  rarer  occasions 
when  we  came  together,  but  Bob  and  I  both  recog- 
nized how  serious  a  passion  held  him,  all  impossible 
of  realization  as  it  then  appeared  to  be;  and  whatever 
sympathy  we  could  express  was  only  mutely  shown, 
in  respectful  recognition  of  that  greatest  problem 
in  life  which  a  man  must  solve  for  and  by  him- 
self. 

There  were  still  cakes  and  ale  on  these  rarer  occa- 
sions, and  one  such  incident  may  be  told  here,  typical 
in  its  sequel  of  that  gift  of  the  fitting  word,  that  was 
constantly  evident  in  the  talk  and  even  in  the  most 
carelessly  written  letters  of  Louis  Stevenson. 

We  were  dining  w^ith  him  at  the  Cafe  of  the  Musee  de 
Cluny,  then  one  of  the  famous  restaurants  of  the  rtve 

194 


YOUTH  NOW  FLEES"  lo: 


gauche  on  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel,  and  it  amused 
Louis  to  describe  to  the  young  wife  an  apocryphal  in- 
cident in  her  husband's  career. 

It  happened,  selon  R.  L.  S.,  that  we  were  dining 
together  in  some  restaurant  famous  for  its  cellar,  and, 
though  the  greatest  care  had  been  taken  to  select  the 
very  best  wine  on  the  card,  and  though  Stevenson 
professed  that  his  simpler  taste  had  been  amply  satis- 
fied, yet  his  critical  companion  insisted  that,  lurking 
somewhere  in  the  cellar,  there  must  be  a  bottle  of 
rarer  vintage.  To  settle  the  question  the  head-waiter 
was  called  and,  at  the  very  first  words  of  the  inquiry 
he  paled  and  said,  with  visible  perturbation:  "Gen- 
tlemen, this  is  a  question  that  cannot  be  decided  by  me 
— I  must  call  the  proprietor." 

When  this  worthy  appeared,  he  first  gave  a  searching 
glance  to  decide  whether  the  two  convives  were  worthy 
of  the  supreme  effort  that  was  demanded,  and  then, 
after  a  brief  consultation  with  the  head-waiter,  he  said, 
with  a  sigh,  "The  gentleman  has  divined  our  secret; 
if  he  will  be  pleased  to  wait  a  moment,  his  commands 
shall  be  obeyed."  After  a  period,  a  procession  ap- 
peared, headed  by  the  somtnelier,  carrying  a  bottle  on 
a  velvet  cushion,  followed  by  the  proprietor  and  the 
whole  staff  of  the  restaurant,  including  the  cooks  and 
all  the  waiters.  Here  Stevenson  gave  a  most  minute 
description  of  the  sommelier^  or  cellarman,  describing 
a  venerable  person  bent  with  age,  with  beard  reaching 
to  his  knees,  cobwebs  in  his  hair,  and  with  eyes  blinking 
in  the  unaccustomed  light,  for  he  had  lived  many, 
many,  years  underground.  The  description  of  the 
venerable   bottle   was   no   less   minute,   a    painstaking. 


196       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

intricate  bit  of  still  life,  such  as  a  Dutch  master  would 
have  delighted  to  paint. 

The  personnel  of  the  restaurant  ranged  themselves 
around  the  two  friends;  but,  before  opening  the  price- 
less bottle,  the  proprietor  made  one  more  appeal, 
asking,  with  emotion,  if  we  felt  ourselves  really  worthy 
to  partake  of  this  glorious  vintage  ?  To  this  the  victim 
of  this  fairy-tale  was  said  to  have  replied,  "with  that 
fatuous  proud  look  of  his,"  that  that  went  without 
saying.  Bien^  assented  the  cowed  proprietor  and,  with 
infinite  precaution,  the  wine  was  opened  and  two 
slender-stemmed  glasses  were  filled. 

The  solemn  moment  when  the  wine  first  touched  our 
lips — for,  hardened  epicures  as  we  were,  even  we  were 
moved — was  then  described  with  consummate  art, 
conveyed  with  easy  spontaneity  in  my  friend's  precise, 
measured,  but  perfectly  idiomatic  French. 

"As  a  smile  of  satisfaction  replaced  the  critical 
frown  on  your  husband's  countenance,"  he  concluded, 
"a  long-drawn  sigh  of  relief  went  up  from  the  restaurant 
force — a  prolonged  Ah-h!  hke  that  of  the  crowd  when 
the  first  rocket  illuminates  the  upturned  faces  at  a  fire- 
works show." 

Thus  the  rough  draft  of  my  friend's  spontaneous 
invention,  as  he  told  it,  with  mock  seriousness  and 
appropriate  gesture,  over  a  bottle  of  less  precious  vin- 
tage than  that  which  he  described,  one  evening  in  the 
winter  of  '76-77,  for  the  temporary  amusement  of  his 
guest. 

Ten  years  later,  in  the  summer  of '86,  again  at  dinner, 
but  this  time  in  our  little  house  in  the  rue  Vernier  in 
Paris,  where  Stevenson  and  his  wife  were  staying  with 


"YOUTH   NOW   FLEES"  197 

us,  Mrs.  Low  asked  him  if  he  remembered  the  story 
that  he  had  "made  up"  to  amuse  her.  "Made  up!" 
exclaimed  Stevenson,  "it  was  Gospel  truth";  and 
then  and  there,  to  both  of  our  memories  recalling  the 
slightest  incidental  detail,  apparently  without  the 
change  of  a  word,  the  tale  was  retold.  We  listened 
intently,  his  feminine  hearer  absolutely  entranced  till 
at  its  conclusion,  until  then  keeping  close  to  the  text, 
he  added  after  the  long-drawn  Ah-h — ,  "the  som- 
melier  dropped  dead."  The  words  were  hardly  ut- 
tered before  he  caught  on  my  wife's  face  the  shadow 
of  surprise  at  this  divergence,  and  as  instantly  replied 
to  her  unspoken  objection,  "that  last  about  the  som- 
melier  isn't  true;    the  rest  is  Gospel!" 

Here  was  the  survival  of  the  child  who  entertained 
himself  with  pirate  stories  in  bed;  the  stickler  for 
accuracy  in  later  life,  looking  up  from  his  writing  to 
another  child,  who,  tired  of  playing  Crusoe  on  his 
island  within  the  limits  of  a  sofa,  slid  to  the  ground, 
and  started  to  walk  away.  "For  Heaven's  sake,  at 
least  svjim^'  remonstrated  the  imaginative-realist. 

Rifts  in  the  cloud — even  comfortable  little  dinners 
like  this — were  of  rare  occurrence,  for  I  was  fighting  a 
losing  fight  in  my  endeavour  to  impress  callous-hearted 
picture  dealers  with  the  merit  of  my  works  and  to  estab- 
lish myself  as  a  self-supporting  artist.  I  was  down  on 
my  luck,  as  the  phrase  goes,  and  the  sympathetic  Louis, 
to  conjure  the  evil  sort,  presented  me  with  a  luck- 
penny,  a  curious  Oriental  coin  which  he  had  found  on 
the  floor  of  the  Parliament  hall  in  Edinburgh — the 
Advocates  walk  which  he  had  intermittently  frequented. 
This  seemed  to  ha\e  an  influence  so  contrary  to  that 


198      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

desired  that,  some  weeks  later,  I  returned  it  to  him, 
filled  with  a  superstitious  horror  at  its  pernicious  ac- 
tivity.* 

It  was  only  a  few  days  later  that  Louis  brought 
Walter  Simpson  to  my  studio,  and  he,  blushing  red 
with  a  most  awkward  assumption  of  a  new-awakened 
interest  in  art,  insisted  on  purchasing  a  picture  for  the 
generous  price  of  five  hundred  francs.  I,  on  my  part, 
was  equally  ashamed  to  profit  by  what  I  knew  was 
the  double  generosity  of  my  friends:  Louis'  in  having 
drawn  his  attention  to  my  desperate  state,  and  Simp- 
son's in  making  what  I  imagine  was  his  first,  if  not  the 
only,  acquisition  of  the  kind.  It  was  some  slight  con- 
solation to  reflect  later,  that  the  picture  was  one  that 
my  master  had  pronounced  to  be  the  best  that  I  had 
painted,  and  to  hope  that  my  friend  had  received  the 
worth  of  his  money. 

I  have  no  desire,  however,  to  linger  over  the  seamy 
side  of  my  personal  experiences;  for  hard-luck  stories 
of  artistic  life  in  Paris  I  may  refer  my  readers  to  "Ma- 
nette  Saloman"  or  "L'CEuvre,"  works  by  MM.  de 
Goncourt  and  Zola,  to  Master  Francois  Villon,  some- 
time student  in  Paris,  or  to  the  unpublished  "Memoirs 
of  an  Art  Student  in  the  Twenty-second  Century" — if 
Paris  holds  its  own  as  the  centre  of  art.  The  ex- 
periences are  very  much  the  same;  they  are  undoubt- 
edly beneficial  in  forming  the  character  of  the  par- 
ticipants— but  they  are,  above  all,  good  to  leave  behind 
one. 

However  much  misfortune  weighed  upon  me  at  the 

*  Yet  later  he  wrote  (December  26,  1885):  "I  remember  the  day  when  I 
found  a  twenty-franc  piece  under  my  fetish.  Have  you  that  fetish  still  ?  and 
has  it  brought  you  luck?"     "Letters,"  Vol.  I,  p.  442. 


-o     -r. 

CC       — 


<*       — 


"YOUTH  NOW  FLEES"  199 

time,  I  must  have  kept  a  modicum  of  courage,  for  the 
question  of  what  I  should  paint  for  the  coming  Salon 
quite  overweighed  the  more  frequent  doubt  as  to  the 
provenance  of  the  next  day's  dinner. 

The  Salon  question  was  solved  in  a  way  that  hasleft 
none  but  pleasant  memories. 

In  my  boyhood  in  Albany  I  had  slightly  known  a 
young  lady  of  Canadian  birth,  whose  name,  Emma  La 
Jeunesse,  was  synonymous  with  her  age,  whose  voice 
and  whose  dramatic  talent  had  in  the  intervening  years 
gained  her  celebrity  upon  the  operatic  stage,  where, 
under  the  name  of  Albani  (in  pretty  compliment  that 
has  shed  illustration  on  my  native  town)  she  had  become 
famous.  One  day,  in  a  friend's  studio,  I  picked  up  a 
newspaper,  and  learned  that  she  was  to  sing  that  winter 
in  Paris.  The  article,  by  the  eminent  critic  Castag- 
nary,  spoke  of  the  singer  in  the  highest  terms,  enu- 
merated her  successes,  and  prophesied  even  greater 
triumphs  for  the  coming  winter.  I  told  my  friend  of 
my  early  acquaintance,  and  he  at  once  suggested  that 
I  should  endeavour  to  renew  it — "and  there,  if  she 
would  consent  to  sit  for  her  portrait,  you  would  have 
an  excellent  subject  for  the  Salon." 

This  project  I,  in  my  obscurity,  scouted,  but  as 
photographs  of  the  diva  began  to  be  shown  in  his  shops, 
they  bred  a  painter-like  enthusiasm  for  a  possible 
subject;  while  some  element  of  kindness  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  led  me  to  desire  a  renewal  of 
acquaintance  at  least. 

Soon  after  Albani  sang  for  the  first  time  at  the  Italiens, 
and  the  next  day  all  Paris  rang  with  her  praises,  her  suc- 
cess being  critically  considered  superior  to  thatof  Patti. 


200      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

It  took  a  certain  measure  of  courage  to  venture  to 
recall  myself  to  the  memory  of  a  prima  donna  in  the 
full  flush  of  her  triumph,  when,  as  I  knew,  so  many 
more  important  people  than  I  would  seek  to  attract  her 
attention. 

The  ante-chamber  and  reception  room  at  her  hotel, 
where  I  eventually  sought  her,  were  not  calculated  to 
encourage  my  advances,  as  they  were  filled  to  over- 
flowing with  floral  tributes  and  encumbered  with  a 
brilliant  assemblage  of  people,  from  the  midst  of  whom 
the  singer  advanced  holding  my  card,  on  which  I  had 
written  a  few  words,  in  her  hand,  and,  with  the  sim- 
plest grace  imaginable,  at  once  made  me  welcome. 
After  a  moment's  converse,  she  begged  me  to  stay 
until  "we  could  talk  over  old  times  in  Albany." 

This  I  did,  and  the  crowd  thinning  a  little,  I  found 
her — as  she  remained  throughout  our  pleasant  rela- 
tionship— a  charming,  simple  woman,  absolutely  un- 
spoiled by  her  success  on  the  stage  and  the  many  marks 
of  distinction  which,  as  I  learned  later,  she  had  received 
in  her  private  character  from  the  Queen  of  England 
and  other  only  less  distinguished  personages.  So  em- 
boldened was  I,  in  fact,  by  the  extreme  kindness  of 
my  reception,  that,  without  further  hesitation,  I  asked 
the  privilege  of  painting  her  portrait  for  the  Salon,  to 
which,  with  a  pretty  reluctance,  she  graciously  con- 
sented. It  was  at  once  arranged  that  I  was  to  see  her 
in  a  variety  of  the  characters  she  represented  on  the 
stage,  to  choose  the  costume  in  which  to  portray  her, 
and  the  very  next  day,  through  her  kindness,  I  received 
a  season  ticket  for  an  orchestra-stall  at  the  Italiens. 

There  then  began  a  dual  existence,  in  which  a  dull 


"YOUTH   NOW   FLEES"  201 

enough  chrysalis  in  my  modest  studio  by  day,  I  became 
at  night  a  brilliant  butterfly  disporting  gayly  among  my 
fellow-butterflies  in  the  foyer  of  the  Theatre  des  Italiens, 
or  arrested  in  flight,  in  my  orchestra-stall  Hstening  en- 
tranced^for  Albani  sang  like  an  angel — to  the  melo- 
dious sorrows  of  Lucia,  Gilda,  or  Amina.  Fortunately 
my  evening  dress  was  irreproachable,  nay  more,  for  I 
doubt  if  its  many  successors  have  ever  approached  its 
sartorial  perfection.  It  was  made  by  an  artist,  one  of 
the  first  workmen  of  Dusautoy,  then  the  principal 
tailor  of  Paris,  whose  portal  neither  I  nor  any  of  my 
student  kind  would  have  ventured  to  cross  in  the  guise 
of  a  client.  It  was  the  exercise  of  one  of  the  small 
economies,  by  which  the  fortunately  initiated  in  Paris 
are  sometimes  privileged  to  profit,  that  had  sent  this 
workman  to  me,  with  a  proposition  to  put  his  skill  at 
my  service,  by  working  on  holidays  and  at  times  when 
he  was  not  employed  by  his  patron,  and  at  a  price 
within  the  means  of  a  student's  purse. 

My  costume  was  therefore  a  work  of  art,  though  I 
greatly  fear  that  its  buttons  marked  "Dusautoy,  four- 
nisseur  de  S.  M.  V Empereur,''  were  filched  by  my 
journeyman  from  his  employer;  and  it  was  perhaps 
well  that  it  was  so,  for  I  was  buoyed  up  by  the  con- 
sciousness that,  in  appearance  at  least,  I  was  fairly 
prosperous.  When  one  frequents  the  Opera,  habitu- 
ally, in  its  highest-priced  seats,  and  at  the  same  time 
has  a  certain  difficulty  in  obtaining  the  six  sous  neces- 
sary for  the  modest  omnibus  to  convey  him  to  the 
halls  of  song,  and  even  more  to  procure  the  fifty  cen- 
times that  was  the  nightly  tribute  exacted  by  the  old 
woman  who  opened  the  door  leading  to  my  seat — the 


202      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

ouvreuse  of  execrated  memory — one  is  indeed  fortunate 
to  possess  well-cut  and  carefully  preserved  evening 
wear. 

Meanwhile  my  portrait,  in  the  costume  of  "Lucia  di 
Lammermoor,"  progressed.  If  my  reader  will  fancy 
the  many  calls  upon  the  leisure  moments  of  a  successful 
prima  donna^  in  the  full  height  of  the  musical  season 
in  a  city  like  Paris,  he  will  form  some  idea  of  the  good 
nature  of  Mile.  Albani,  in  thus  crossing  the  city  to  my 
remote  quarter,  and  with  unfailing  patience  lending 
herself  to  the  production  of  a  portrait,  the  very  accept- 
ance of  which  by  the  Salon  jury — on  this  point  I  had 
been  quite  frank — was  problematical. 

The  kindness  was  unfailing;  the  sittings,  governed, 
perforce,  by  the  professional  engagements  of  the  singer, 
were  as  frequent  as  she  could  make  them;  and  even 
when,  as  once,  in  my  intentness  on  my  work,  I  per- 
mitted the  fire  to  go  out,  and  my  sitter  contracted  a 
cold  that  very  nearly  occasioned  the  closing  of  the 
opera  house  for  a  time,  my  only  punishment  was  the 
unfalhng  regularity  with  which  I  would  receive  a 
telegram  the  mornings  before  the  subsequent  sit- 
tings, admonishing  me  to  care  for  the  little  circular 
stove,  which  was  the  primitive  form  of  heating  my 
studio. 

The  report  of  my  undertaking  spread  among  the 
students,  and  more  than  once  the  diva,  as  I  escorted 
her  across  the  courtyard  on  the  way  to  her  carriage, 
encountered  the  admiring  glances  of  some  of  my  fel- 
lows waiting  in  her  path;  honest  admiration,  which 
finally  culminated  one  evening  on  the  stage,  in  the 
presentation  of  an  album  of  original  sketches,  in  which 


Portrait  of  Emma  Albani — role  of  Lucia,  Salon  of  1877 

From  the  painting  hv  Will   H.   Low,   in  the  possession  of  the 
Albany  Club,  Albany,  X.  V. 


"YOUTH   NOW   FLEES"  203 

every  American  artist  or  student  in  Paris  at  that  time 
had  considered  it  an  honour  to  be  represented. 

Some  of  my  friends  occasionally  accompanied  me  to 
the  Opera,  and  I  remember  that  Louis  particularly 
fell  under  the  spell  of  Albani's  voice,  and  the  charm 
v^ith  which  she  represented  Lucia;  though  his  Scottish 
spirit  rebelled  at  the  Gallic  misrepresentation  of  the 
customs  of  his  country  by  the  male  chorus,  every 
"man-jack  of  them"  wearing  in  his  bonnet,  as  he 
pointed  out,  the  cock-feather  which  denotes  the  chief 
of  a  clan! 

Time  after  time  my  patient  sitter  came,  with  each 
return  adding  to  the  burden  of  gratitude  which  I  am 
yet  proud  to  bear,  until  at  last — all  too  soon  for  me 
and  for  the  merit  of  my  work — the  impatient  carrier 
came  and  bore  away  the  portrait.  Fortunately,  it 
found  favour  in  the  judgment  of  the  jury,  and  figured 
in  the  Salon  of  1877  with  another  work  of  mine — the 
plain  of  Barbizon,  le  jour  des  Moris — All-Souls'  Day — 
now  in  the  art  gallery  of  Smith  College,  Northampton, 
Mass. 

This  Salon  has  for  other  reasons  remained  memora- 
ble with  me,  as  it  was  there  that  I  saw,  for  the  first 
time,  a  statue  which  no  modern  sculptor  has  equalled 
as  a  work  that  embodies  the  finest  essence  of  the  spirit 
of  Renaissance  sculpture,  grafted  upon  an  almost 
Greek  perfection  of  workmanship.  The  works  of 
sculpture  are  sent  to  the  Salon  for  judgment  by  the 
jury  some  time  in  advance  of  the  painting.  This  is 
necessitated  on  account  of  the  greater  difficulty  of 
arranging  the  collection  in  the  sculpture  gallery;  and, 
as  the  majority  of  the  works  are  in  plaster,  there  are 


204      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

frequently  minor  breakages  which  require  to  be  re- 
paired before  the  Salon  is  opened.  Consequently  the 
sculptor-contributors  are  admitted  to  the  galleries  for 
the  purpose  of  repairing  such  damage  a  month  before 
the  painters,  whose  fate  is  hanging  in  the  balance,  can 
know  whether  their  cherished  works  are  placed  or  not. 

For  several  years  I  had  profited  by  my  intimacy  with 
my  group  of  sculptor  friends  to  get  this  prelimmary 
glimpse  of  the  Salon,  a  partial  view  only,  as  the  doors 
of  the  picture  galleries  were  jealously  guarded  and 
none  could  penetrate  there. 

But  from  my  earliest  youth  in  Albany,  where  my 
first  glimpse  of  art  was  in  the  studio  of  the  late  E.  D. 
Palmer,  the  most  notable  of  the  group  of  early  Amer- 
ican sculptors,  through  my  later  friendship  for  Olin  L. 
Warner  in  New  York,  to  whom  was  due  the  intimate 
relations  with  the  little  group  of  sculptors  in  Paris,  my 
interest  in  sculpture  has  always  been  vital;  in  fact,  I 
hold  that  no  greater  injury  has  ever  been  inflicted  on 
art  than  the  specialization  to  any  one  of  its  phases  that 
has  gradually  enfeebled  the  practitioner  of  art  since 
the  days  when  the  artist  was  painter,  sculptor,  and 
architect,  each  and  all  in  turn. 

Therefore,  when  the  Salon  doors  were  to  open  to  my 
sculptor  friends,  I  joined  them,  clad  in  a  plaster- 
bespattered  blouse,  carrying  a  small  bag  of  plaster  and 
a  few  tools  and,  in  this  disguise  as  one  of  their  assist- 
ants, was  smuggled  past  the  guardians  at  the  gate. 
Once  within  the  spacious  glass-roofed  garden  with  its 
snow-white  population — the  first  impression  of  such  a 
scene  is  one  of  suddenly  arrested  hfe,  of  suspended 
animation — our  first  concern  before  any  damage  was 


"YOUTH   NOW   FLEES"  205 

investigated  or  repair  made,  was  to  see  the  sculpture  of 
the  year.  The  circuit  was  slowly  made,  our  group 
mingled  with  others  like  it,  passing  before  each  prin- 
cipal work,  and  loud  admiration  or  equally  vehement 
denunciation  found  voice,  while  the  ball  of  criticism 
was  tossed  to  and  fro  with  at  least  as  much  energy  as 
address. 

Finally,  Gaudez  observing  sagely  that  meritorious 
work  was  often  hidden  in  the  darker  corners,  we  left 
the  central  portion  of  the  garden,  and  followed  the  long 
lines  of- groups  and  figures  placed  within  the  shadow 
of  the  projecting  balcony  which  ran  around  the  en- 
closure. There  was  a  double  line  of  sculpture  which 
thus  encircled  the  central  portion  of  the  garden,  the 
works  placed  at  its  outer  limit  being  close  against  the 
walls,  and  rendered  doubly  inconspicuous  from  their 
position  and  from  the  penumbra  in  which  they  could 
alone  be  seen  and  studied. 

Here  in  one  of  the  darkest  corners  of  the  "Morgue," 
as  this  section  was  pleasantly  entitled,  we  were  arrested 
by  the  view  of  a  single  figure  of  a  man,  nude,  exceed- 
ingly simple  in  movement  and  without  accessories  of 
any  kind.  After  a  moment's  inspection  murmurs  of 
admiration  rose,  and  these  trained  sculptors  soon 
realized  that  they  were  in  the  presence  of  a  master- 
piece. 

But  whose  work  was  it  ?  For  with  the  interest  of 
men  engaged  in  a  common  pursuit,  they  would  have 
insisted  that  they  knew  the  style  and  the  name  of  any 
one  capable  of  work  like  this.  But  though  the  name 
of  the  sculptor — Rodin — was  soon  discovered  graven 
on  the  plinth  of  the  statue,  none  of  the  group — there 


206      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

were  perhaps  twenty  present — knew  the  man  or  his 
work.  At  last  Gaudez,  tou jours,  came  to  the  rescue: 
"I  have  it,"  he  cried,  "and  I  even  know  him  a  httle; 
he  is  a  fellow  who  works  as  an  assistant  for  Carrier- 
Belleuse;  he  had  a  very  remarkable  bust,  a  man  with 
a  broken  nose,  in  the  Salon  a  few  years  ago."  Carrier- 
Belleuse  was  a  well-known  sculptor  of  the  time,  whose 
works,  filled  with  a  facile  grace — veritable  "articles  de 
Paris*' — were  the  very  antithesis  of  the  work  we  stood 
before. 

After  discussing  the  work  for  some  time, .  with  in- 
creasing enthusiasm  studying  it  from  every  point  of 
view  as  well  as  could  be  done — for  the  figure  was  so 
close  against  the  wall  that  the  superb  back,  with  its 
relaxed  muscles  and  its  sense  of  latent  energy,  was 
lost — voices  rose  in  protest  against  the  injustice  of  its 
placing.  Then  ensued  a  riotous  scene,  the  guardians 
were  sought,  and  remonstrance  was  loud;  the  head- 
guardian  finally  came,  but  these  authorities  were  for  a 
time  obdurate:  Rodin's  figure  had  been  placed  where 
it  was  by  the  order  of  the  Committee  charged  with  the 
arrangement  of  the  sculpture,  and  there  it  would  stay. 
At  last,  every  one  talking  at  once,  the  diplomatic 
Gaudez  passed  his  arm  through  that  of  the  chief- 
guardian  and  drew  him  aside.  We  watched  them 
walking  around  various  figures  placed  in  well-lighted 
and  better  positions,  until  the  chief-guardian,  finally 
gained  to  our  cause  by  I  know  not  what  arguments  of 
my  irresistible  friend,  the  order  was  given  to  displace 
another  figure,  thus  judged  by  our  extemporary  jury 
to  be  of  minor  importance,  and  to  give  Rodin  an  ad- 
mirable   position    in    the    centre   of  the  garden.     The 


"YOUTH   NOW   FLEES"  207 

sequel  is  part  of  the  recorded  history  of  art;  the  Salon 
opened  and  a  critical  war  waged  around  "The  Man  of 
the  Age  of  Bronze."  How  it  could  have  been  sus- 
pected for  a  moment  that  this  noble  work  was  made  up 
of  casts  from  nature — even  if  this  largely  conceived 
and  chastened  form  could  be  found  in  any  living  model 
— is  difficult  to  conceive.  This  charge  was,  however, 
promptly  brought,  and  as  quickly  disproved;  and  from 
the  attacks  and  the  defence,  which,  to  the  credit  of 
Paris,  carried  the  day,  Rodin  came  forth  triumphantly, 
an  acknowledged  master. 

With  much  of  the  sculptor's  later  development  the 
present  writer  owns  himself  less  in  sympathy,  but  his 
admiration  has  grown  rather  than  lessened  in  the 
elapsing  years  for  the  "Age  of  Bronze";  and  it  was 
interesting  to  learn  from  a  friend,  who  shares  his  ap- 
preciation, and  who,  seated  by  th^  side  of  the  sculptor 
at  a  dinner  in  Paris  not  long  ago,  expressed  it  warmly, 
that  Rodin  answered,  "I  am  pleased  that  you  like  the 
'Age  of  Bronze';  perhaps  it  is  my  best  work;  I  even 
doubt  if  I  could  do  it  to-day." 


XVII 
FINI  DE  RIRE! 

THE  privileges  of  a  mild  participant,  of  even  a  mere 
spectator  of  the  artistic  activities  of  Paris,  v^ere 
measurably  great,  it  appeared  in  those  days,  but 
man  cannot  live  by  these  alone.  Stubborn  though  one 
may  be,  determined  to  consider  art  exclusively,  the 
butcher  and  the  baker,  to  say  nothing  of  the  landlord, 
have  convincing  arguments  to  the  contrary  of  this  view 
of  life  that  one  must  pause  to  consider. 

Therefore,  v^hen  the  spring  of  1877  was  well  ad- 
vanced, one  of  the  actors  in  this  narrative  bethought 
himself  that,  as  he  had  been  able  to  wrest  from  his 
embryonic  art  a  fairly  decent  living  in  New  York  when 
in  his  'teens,  he  surely,  by  returning  there  after  five 
years'  study  in  Paris,  might  be  able  to  earn  something 
more  nearly  approaching  regularity  of  sustenance  and 
shelter  than  Paris  seemed  disposed  to  grant. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end;  our  little  circle  was 
breaking  apart.  Bob  had  made  a  short  stay  at  Cernay- 
la-Ville,  carrying  Louis  with  him,  and  then  had  returned, 
like  an  uneasy  spirit,  to  Barbizon  and  later  to  Grez. 
Louis  meanwhile  returned  to  Paris  and  set  up  his  tent 
on  Montmartre.  Enfield  was  at  Rouen  directing  the 
building  of  a  small  sloop  yacht  with  a  center-board, 
then  an  almost  unknown  feature  among  European 
boat-builders.  Other  comrades,  with  the  addition  of 
many   new  arrivals,   were   settled   for   the   summer   at 

208 


«^   i  r' 


—  ■£ 

r    O 


FINI   DE   RIRE!  200 

Grez,  whence  Bob,  on  occasional  visits  to  Paris, 
brought  news.  There  were  wars  and  rumours  of 
wars.  O'Meara  had  "taken  a  grouch"  for  somebody 
or  something,  and  during  a  long  afternoon,  while  Bob 
had  walked  him  over  the  fields,  had  reiterated  his 
intention  to  slay  somebody  at  the  dinner-table  that 
evening;  his  chosen  weapon  being  a  bottle  of  pale 
ale,  which,  fortunately,  he  otherwise  disposed  of,  after 
the  mollifying  influence  of  a  long  walk  and  the  pacifi- 
catory eloquence  of  our  friend.  But,  according  to  Bob, 
the  place  was  changed;  there  were  too  many  people 
there;  and  though,  in  that  and  the  following  year, 
some  of  our  friends  sojourned  at  Grez  for  a  time,  it  was 
finally  abandoned  by  its  "discoverers";  after  which  it 
had  a  brief  popularity,  until  a  magazine  article  effectu- 
ally spoiled  it  by  bringing  hordes  of  "tourists" — the 
usual  signal  for  the  departure  of  the  artists;  and  since 
then  the  pretty  village  has  resumed  its  somnolent 
existence. 

Louis  was  still  a  frequent  visitor  at  "eighty-one," 
where  I  had  retained  my  studio,  and  he  at  this  time 
w^as  making  an  excursion  into  journalism  for  a  short- 
lived publication  entitled  "London."  I  can  see  him 
now,  his  lank  form  comfortably  distributed  between 
two  chairs,  industriously  writing  an  article  on — of  all 
things  in  the  world — the  Paris  Bourse! 

Another  welcome  visitor  about  this  time  was  Henry 
Enfield,  who  blew  in  from  Rouen  one  day,  declared 
that  I  was  "ofF-colour — decidedly  seedy,"  a  statement 
with  which  my  wife  agreed,  and  bore  me  down  the 
Seine  to  Rouen,  for  the  trial  voyage  of  the  Gannet,  as 
he  had  christened  his  recently  constructed  yacht. 


210      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

Enfield  In  his  fine  robustness  was  a  tonic  influence 
to  one  who  was,  probably  more  than  he  was  willing  to 
acknowledge,  run  down  from  a  long-continued  strain, 
and,  though  the  sturdy  mariner  would  have  resented  the 
imputation  of  kindly  solicitude,  no  tired  mortal  ever  had 
a  more  kindly  and  solicitous  nurse.  We  constituted 
the  entire  crew,  he  and  I,  sleeping  in  the  half-decked 
cock-pit  which  sheltered  our  heads  and  shoulders,  with 
a  rubber  poncho-blanket  stretched  over  the  rest  of  our 
bodies,  and  seldom  going  ashore,  except  when  my 
ministrations  as  cook  drove  us  to  some  riverside  Inn, 
In  order,  as  my  captain  expressed  it,  "that  we  might 
get  something  fit  to  eat."  Sailing  the  tortuous  reaches 
of  the  Seine  from  Rouen  to  Caudebec,  anchoring  where 
It  pleased  us  with  a  view  to  sketches,  though  our  works 
of  art  were  not  numerous,  we  passed  a  pleasant  fort- 
night, with  much  rain  that  in  nowise  dampened  our 
spirits. 

Not  even  my  cookery,  conducted  in  the  open  air,  on 
a  charcoal  stove,  perched  on  the  deck  over  the  cock- 
pit, nor  my  original  Invention  of  washing  cups  and 
kitchen  utensils  by  tying  strings  to  their  handles  and 
letting  them  drift  as  we  sailed,  seemed  to  affect  the 
cheerful  spirits  of  the  master-mariner,  who,  wherever 
he  may  be,  I  could  wish  to  read  this,  and  harken  to 
some  echo  of  our  memorable  cruise.  He  would  per- 
haps remember  the  tipsy  patriot,  from  whom  we  es- 
caped at  the  inn  at  Duclair,  who  procured  a  boat  and 
rowed  out  to  where,  anchored  In  the  river,  we  were 
sleeping,  to  continue  the  development  of  his  political 
views.  Twice  was  his  painter  unloosed,  twice  was  he 
set  adrift,  before  he  would  take  a  hint;    and  then,  his 


FINI   DE   RIRE!  211 

humour  changing,  as  the  placid  current  carried  him 
away,  the  silent  river  echoed  back:  "Sales  Anglais, 
especes  de  Prussiens!"  Even  our  failure  to  penetrate 
the  inner  circle  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  the  land 
through  which  we  sailed  might  still  awake  a  semblance 
of  regret  ? 

It  came  about  in  this  manner.  We  were  ashore  at 
Jumieges,  the  chronicler  engaged  in  painting,  his  less 
industrious  companion  stretched  upon  the  sward  at  his 
side.  Throughout  the  morning  we  had  heard  the 
baying  of  hounds,  and  knew  that  a  hunt  was  in  prog- 
ress in  the  forest  of  Tancarville,  which  crowned  the 
heights  on  the  opposite  shore.  Suddenly  the  attention 
of  one  of  us  was  attracted  to  a  dark  object  midway  in 
the  stream — the  Seine  is  here  of  considerable  breadth — 
which  appeared  and  vanished  in  turn,  for  all  the  world 
like  some  one  swimming  the  river.  After  watching  this 
floating  object  a  moment,  Enfield  ran  to  the  bank 
where  our  yawl  was  moored,  summoning  a  peasant 
boy  near  at  hand  to  accompany  him,  and  rowed  away. 
From  my  station  I  watched  the  boat  arrive  in  the 
middle  of  the  river,  and  saw  it  stop,  when  there  ensued 
a  struggle  of  some  kind,  difficult  to  make  out  from  a 
distance. 

When  the  boat  returned,  it  carried  a  strongly  pro- 
testing passenger  in  the  shape  of  a  young  deer,  which 
had  escaped  from  the  hounds  and  was  swimming  for 
its  life.  What  could  we  do  ?  Our  sympathy  was  all 
for  the  "poor  little  beggar,"  who,  bleating  pitifully, 
lay  hobbled  by  the  boat's  painter  in  the  bottom  of  the 
yawl.  On  the  other  hand,  not  only  are  the  laws  of 
France  strict,  and  the  case  that  was  before  us  amply 


212      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

provided  for,  but  the  exiguous  accommodations  of  our 
cock-pit  forbade  carrying  away  our  capture.  "An 
uncommonly  lively  cruise  it  w^ould  be  with  that  beast 
for  a  cabin-boy,"  opined  the  skipper.  At  last  we 
decided  upon  a  plan,  and  placing  the  deer  in  the  cus- 
tody of  one  of  the  peasants,  who  had  a  home  near  by, 
with  strict  injunctions  to  care  for  its  safety,  we  indited 
a  note  in  our  prettiest  French  to  ''Monsieur  le  Marquis 

de ,  a  son  chateau  de  T ancarville^^  explaining  the 

affair,  and  saying  that  we  held  the  prisoner  at  his  dis- 
position. Early  the  following  morning  a  lackey,  gor- 
geous in  green  and  gold,  came  with  a  note,  thanking 
us  profusely,  begging  that  we  would  turn  over  our 
capture  to  the  bearer  of  the  note,  and  in  terms  of  the 
greatest  courtesy,  inviting  us  to  dine  sans  ce're'monie 
at  the  chateau  that  evening. 

We  probably  looked  like  tramps  in  our  boating  rig, 
and  I  fancy  that,  from  the  first,  the  gorgeous  creature 
in  green  and  gold  had  looked  askance  at  us;  but,  when 
we  led  him  up  the  bank  to  the  house  where  our  capture 
was  held,  to  be  met  by  a  chorus  of  lamentations  that 
in  the  night  the  deer  had  sHpped  his  hobble  and  had 
escaped,  his  scornful  expression  told  us  but  too  plainly 
that  he  suspected  that,  in  collusion  with  the  peasants, 
we  were  counting  on  venison  for  dinner. 

Nothing  remained  but  to  write  another  note  of  ex- 
planation, and  to  decline  M.  le  Marquis'  pohte  invita- 
tion for  that  evening;  and  so,  strangely  saddened  by 
the  whole  occurrence,  we  raised  our  anchor  and  sailed 
down  the  river. 

Whether  this  "meets  the  eye"  of  the  Captain  or  not, 
the  cook  of  the  Gannet  retains  the  liveliest  memories  of 


FINI   DE    RIRE!  213 

the  cruise,  not  the  least  of  which  is  of  the  friend  who, 
"without  any  nonsense  about  it,"  found  a  fellow  down 
on  his  luck  and  helped  put  him,  mentally  and  phys- 
ically, back  upon  his  feet  again. 

Returning  to  Paris,  much  clearer-headed  than  before 
this  outing,  the  veracious  chronicler  proceeded  to  set 
such  order  as  he  could  to  his  affairs,  with  a  view  of 
seeking  an  environment  in  his  home-land  more  appre- 
ciative of  his  merits  than  he  could  command  abroad. 

How  little  we  ever  know  what  fate  has  in  store  for 
us!  Here  was  a  youth  who  had  become,  as  may  be 
gathered  from  the  preceding  pages,  strangely  alien  to 
his  native  country  and  to  his  early  associations,  M'hose 
active  life  seemed  centred  in  a  foreign  land,  and  whose 
dearest  friends  by  a  cruel  decree — which  he  as  openly 
resented  as  he  blindly  obeyed  it — were  to  be  separated 
from  him  by  three  thousand  miles  of  ocean  for  a  long 
period — perhaps  for  ever. 

Here  I  must  somewhat  qualify  this  sweeping  state- 
ment, so  true  it  is  that  conflicting  elements  are  con- 
stantly at  work  within  us.  For  a  time,  one  who  is 
sincerely  enamoured  of  his  vocation,  can  so  consecrate 
his  every  waking  thought  to  his  art  that  he  almost  ceases 
to  be  a  human  being;  and  this,  of  course,  without  any 
relation  to  the  merit  of  his  production  as  a  justification 
for  his  virtual  withdrawal  from  all  kindly  commerce 
with  his  fellow  beings.  Here  in  these  pages  are  prin- 
cipally enregistered  the  events  of  our  playtime;  but, 
in  the  period  of  time  covered,  there  were  months,  and 
weeks,  and  hours,  not  touched  upon  here;  some  glad- 
dened by  hope  and  illuminated  by  small  technical 
successes,  and  as  many  more  saddened  by  despair  and 


214      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

darkened  by  failure;  but  all  consecrated  to  the  jealous 
divinity  of  art  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else.  Between 
this  obsession,  which,  according  to  our  various  tem- 
peraments, w^e  all  felt  in  greater  or  less  degree,  and  the 
clamant  call  of  our  daily  material  surroundings,  I 
fancy  that  there  was  a  third  influence  shaping  our 
lives;  whose  tentacles  reached  back  to  the  source  of 
our  being;  and  from  our  cradles  forward  to  the  child 
in  a  strange  land  at  work  or  play,  in  good  or  ill — the 
subject  of  a  father's  ponderings  or  a  mother's  prayers. 

We  seldom  touched  upon  such  subjects,  I  never,  save 
with  Louis  in  one  or  two  well-remembered  talks;  but 
now  that  the  die  was  cast  and  the  resolve  to  return 
home  taken,  there  was  a  certain  denationalized,  Galli- 
cized youth  in  Paris  who,  somewhat  to  his  surprise, 
was  quite  frankly  and  simply  homesick. 

Home,  however,  meant  for  him  a  small  and  restricted 
family  circle  in  an  inland  town,  from  whence  he  knew 
that  he  would  soon  be  obliged  to  wing  his  flight  in  the 
quest  for  the  Almighty  Dollar,  beloved,  as  he  believed, 
of  his  compatriots  and  desirable — in  a  dazzling  per- 
spective— to  his  own  uses.  The  larger  patriotism,  the 
love  for  his  native  country,  was  in  no  considerable 
degree  a  factor  in  this  sudden  wave  of  nostalgia;  for 
the  art  atmosphere  of  New  York  he  remembered,  as 
St.  Patrick  may  have  remembered  the  snakes  in  Ire- 
land; and  thus  torn  by  conflicting  emotions — fate 
knocked  at  his  door! 

The  wise  proscription  that  we  must  not  speak  of 
the  living,  leaves  many  blanks  in  this  record,  the 
names  of  good  men  and  good  women  who  have  been 
my  friends;    but,  as  I  have  sought  to  weld  together  the 


FINI   DE   RIRE!  215 

loose  links  of  the  chain  that  leads  backward  to  my 
student  days,  one  name  was  in  later  time  so  closely 
linked  to  that  of  Louis  Stevenson,  that  I  was  deter- 
mined to  break  this  rule  in  his  case.  I  had  foreseen 
and  rehearsed  the  arguments  by  which  I  would  over- 
come his  essential  modesty;  would  wrest  his  permission 
to  treat  him,  in  the  eminence  which  he  had  attained, 
as  a  public  character  concerning  whose  personality  a 
genuine  and  legitimate  interest  was  permissible — 
within  certain  bounds — which  he  might  trust  me  not 
to  transgress. 

All  these  precautions,  are  useless  now  that  "the 
noise  of  the  mallet  and  chisel  is  scarcely  quenched"  (in 
the  words  which  Louis  might  well  have  written  of  our 
friend,  words  so  often  applied  to  and  typical  of  him- 
self), "when  trailing  with  him  clouds  of  glory,  this 
happy-starred,  full-blooded  spirit"  has  shot  "into  the 
spiritual  land."  It  was  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  to 
whom  I  opened  my  door  that  summer  morning,  and 
who,  with  that  straightforward  simplicity  that  he 
retained  through  life,  greeted  me. 

"Your  name  is  Low,  is  it  not?  You  had  a  bully 
picture  in  the  Academy  of  Design  last  spring,  and  I 
wanted  to  come  and  tell  you  so.  My  name  is  Saint- 
Gaudens."  "Come  in,"  I  replied,  "/  know  you  very 
well.'' 

And  so  in  fact  I  did.  From  the  earliest  days  of  my 
arrival  in  Paris,  often  when  the  question  of  the  talent 
of  any  of  the  younger  sculptors  came  up  among  my 
French  friends,  the  remark  would  be  made:  "So-and- 
So  is  very  well,  but  do  you  know,  or  do  you  remember, 
Saint-Gaudens  ?" 


21C      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

The  curious  reputation  of  the  abihty  of  a  man  in  his 
student-days,  the  place  which  among  the  younger 
painters  John  Sargent  so  rapidly  acquired,  and  which, 
later,  Saint-Gauden's  brilliant  pupil  MacMonnies  in- 
herited in  a  large  degree,  had  been  awarded  Saint- 
Gaudens  in  the  atelier  Jouffroyy  where  he  had  studied, 
and  the  appreciation  of  his  talent  had  been  handed 
down  as  a  tradition  of  the  schools. 

I  had  heard  of  it,  before  I  left  New  York,  from 
Warner,  and  once,  when  with  him,  in  the  old  Knoedler 
Gallery,  then  at  22d  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  he  had 
left  my  side  to  greet  another  visitor;  and  then,  calling 
me  over,  had  introduced  the  stranger  by  the  name 
which  I  at  once  recognized  as  that  of  the  crack-student 
of  whom  Warner  had  so  often  spoken;  a  meeting 
which  I  afterward  learned  had  passed  from  Saint- 
Gaudens'  memory. 

But  it  was  not  many  hours  before  we  knew  each 
other  well.  His  long  absence  from  Paris,  his  residence 
in  Rome,  and  his  sojourn  in  New  York,  whence 
he  was  newly  arrived,  bearing  a  commission  to  model 
the  statue  of  Farragut,  had  little  changed  him;  and 
we  might  have  been  students  of  our  respective  ateliers 
meeting  for  the  first  time,  and  estabhshing  that  almost 
instantaneous  footing  of  intimacy  which  between  kin- 
dred spirits  was  not  unusual  in  those  days. 

And  soon— not  at  once,  but  gradually  unfolding 
before  my  mental  vision,  as  my  new  friend  in  the  days 
that  followed  described  incidents  and  conditions  in  the 
art  life  of  that  strange  city  of  the  New  World,  whence 
he  came  and  where  I  was  to  go — a  new  outlook  on 
life  was  presented  to  me. 


FINI   DE    RIRE!  217 

Vividly  presented,  for  in  a  manner  unlike  any  I  have 
known,  Saint-Gaudens  had  a  gift  of  making  one  "see 
things."  He,  in  all  simplicity,  believed  himself  to  be 
virtually  inarticulate;  and  for  any  personal  exercise 
of  the  spoken  or  written  word  he,  quite  honestly,  pro- 
fessed much  the  same  aversion  as  he,  the  skilled  artist, 
would  feel  for  the  bungling  attempt  of  the  ignorant 
amateur. 

But  it  was  precisely  because  he  was  so  intensely  an 
artist  that  his  mental  vision  was  clear,  and  that  which 
he  saw  he  in  turn  made  visible — there  is  no  other  word 
— to  others.  How,  it  is  hardly  possible  to  describe, 
but  I  have  heard  many  others  who  by  common  consent 
would  be  accounted  better  talkers  than  he,  endeavour 
to  repeat  some  story  or  incident  originally  told  by 
Saint-Gaudens,  and  the  contrast  was  painful  between 
the  vivid,  full-coloured  image  of  the  one  and  the  pallid 
copy  of  the  other. 

At  the  time  of  our  meeting  he  was  filled  with  interest 
in  the  revolutionary  movement  in  art  that  was  then 
gathering  weight  in  New  York. 

It  is  ancient  history  now,  the  story  of  the  six  or 
eight  young  Americans  who,  without  preconcert,  had 
sent  home  pictures,  the  first-fruit  of  their  study  abroad, 
to  the  spring  exhibition  of  the  National  Academy  in 
1877.  Their  reception  from  the  Academicians  of  those 
days,  who,  lulled  to  ease  in  their  handsome  Venetian 
palace,  had  to  some  degree  ceased  to  put  forth  the 
continuous  effort  that  alone  ensures  the  well-being  of 
art,  was  discouraging;  while  the  press,  unaccustomed 
to  the  bolder  eflForts  of  the  newcomers,  was  equally 
ungracious. 


218      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

This  evidence  of  a  probably  hostile  reception  at 
home  was  not  calculated  to  cheer  a  returning  pilgrim, 
as  my  picture,  "  Reverie — in  the  Time  of  the  First 
Empire,"  which  had  gained  me  his  friendship,  was 
counted  among  the  offenders;  but  Saint-Gaudens 
brought  other  news  of  a  more  comforting  nature. 

He  told  of  a  circle  of  younger  artists,  with  whom  he 
had  been  intimately  connected,  and  who,  in  company 
with  some  of  the  more  liberal  spirits  in  the  Academy, 
had  formed  a  new  Society  to  hold  exhibitions,  where 
art  upon  the  ideal  basis  of  "Art  for  art's  sake,"  was  to 
find  expression.  It  was  still  in  the  first  stage  of  forma- 
tion when  he  had  left  New  York,  but  he  held  out  to  the 
home-goer  the  prospect  of  finding  kindred  spirits  who 
would  welcome  him  to  their  ranks,  and  drew  a  cheering 
horoscope  of  the  future,  which  had  the  result  of  creating 
a  hope  that,  as  a  worker  in  such  a  cause,  a  larger  and 
more  useful  field  of  endeavour  lay  before  his  hearer 
than  he  could  ever  hope  for  as  an  alien  in  a  strange 
land. 

The  shackles  of  independent,  unrelated  effort  were 
weakened,  and  the  virtually  selfish  desire  of  the  artist 
to  perfect  his  own  production,  and  leave  the  general 
advancement  of  art  to  take  care  of  itself,  appeared  for 
the  first  time  in  less  alluring  colours  than  they  were 
wont  to  wear,  and  gradually  the  conclusion  forced 
itself  upon  me  that,  in  w^hatever  measure  I  could  be  of 
use,  the  activities  of  art  in  our  New  World  held  com- 
pensation in  some  degree  for  the  superior  civilization 
by  which  I  had  lived  surrounded. 

Fini  de  rire,  yes,  laughter  and  many  delights  were  to 
be  put  by;    but  there  was  work  to  do,  and  I  knew  that 


FINI   DE   RIRE!  219 

in  some  of  it  I  should  be  allowed  to  assist — probably 
counting  on  doing  it  better  than  the  event  has  proved — 
and  so  I  prepared  to  enter  into  a  new  world,  a  new 
phase  of  life. 


XVIII 
A  NEW  FRIEND  AND  HIS  WORK 

FORTUNATELY  for  me,  the  return  home  was  to 
be  delayed  for  three  months,  for  in  that  interval 
I  saw  much  of  Saint-Gaudens.  The  lease  of  my 
studio  at  "eighty-one"  lapsed  soon  after  our  first 
meeting  and,  not  to  renew  it  even  for  a  short  period, 
my  new  friend  invited  me  to  share  the  large  studio 
which  he  had  taken  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  and 
live  in  the  Httle  apartment  on  the  Boulevard  Pereire, 
where  he  had  set  up  housekeeping.  In  this  daily  con- 
tact it  may  be  imagined  that  our  intimacy  progressed 
rapidly,  and  I  soon  knew  his  whole  life-history,  nar- 
rated during  the  progress  of  our  work  in  the  studio, 
with  the  picturesque  presentation  of  which  he  was 
master. 

I  saw  the  little  New  York  boy  who  lived  down-town 
in  Varick  or  Lispenard  Street,  in  a  part  of  the  city 
which  was  already  "old-fashioned"  in  the  later  days 
of  the  Civil  War.  I  shared  his  dehghts  in  following, 
as  fast  as  small  legs  could  carry  him,  the  exciting 
progress  of  the  "Masheen,"  on  its  way  to  a  fire,  pulled 
by  the  heroes  of  the  Volunteer  Fire  Department;  for 
hke  glories  had  been  mine  in  my  inland  town  in  my 
own  day  of  "short  pants."  Escapades  on  the  docks, 
and  the  thousand  and  one  adventures  of  the  public 
schoolboy,  of  which  he  had  a  fund  of  recollections, 
followed.     Born  in  Dublin,  of  mixed  French  and  Irish 

220 


t  ;*«•»  'lirr'a'^  .^^  a- 


v'lr 


:^-.*l-**JI»^i 


Rcrcdds  by  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 

Modelled  in  Paris,  1877,  for  St.  Thomas's  Church  (recently  destroyed  by 

fire),  New  York  City.     Photographed  from  the  original  models 

as  placed  on  the  studio  wall  in  Paris. 


A  NEW  FRIEND  AND  HIS  WORK      221 

parentage,  Saint-Gaudens  was  not  only  American,  but 
he  was  one  of  the  very  few  genuine  New  Yorkers  that 
I  have  ever  found;  for,  like  Paris,  which  proudly  shows, 
in  niches  along  the  facade  of  its  Hotel  de  Ville,  the 
statues  of  one  hundred  and  ten  noted  Parisians,  of 
whom  only  a  small  proportion  were  born  within  its 
walls,  many  are  called  to  New  York,  but  few  are  in 
fact  the  children  of  the  city. 

Through  his  apprenticeship  to  a  cameo-cutter,  less 
an  artist  than  an  artisan;  the  development  of  his 
talent  through  working  at  night  in  Cooper  Union,  and 
in  the  school  of  the  Academy  of  Design;  through  the 
awakening  of  his  ambition  which  finally  landed  him 
in  the  atelier  Jouffroy  in  Paris,  his  recital  went  on  bit  by 
bit.  Of  course,  this  was  quite  without  autobiographical 
intention,  but  I  was  anxious  to  learn  all  that  I  could 
of  New  York,  for,  despite  my  two  years'  experience 
there,  the  city  seemed  exceedingly  remote  in  the  nearer 
memories  of  my  five  years  in  Paris.  Interchange  of 
confidences  carried  my  friend  along  to  tell  me  of  his 
student  life  in  Paris,  where,  meagrely  supported  by  his 
cameo-cutting,  his  hardships  had  been  such  that  I 
found  my  experiences  were  as  nothing  in  comparison. 
An  early  commission  had  taken  him  to  Rome,  where 
he  had  executed  what  he  called  "the  necessary  mistake 
of  every  American  sculptor — the  figure  of  an  Indian." 
This,  a  statue  of  "  Hiawatha,"  was  the  only  nude 
figure  that  he  ever  finished,  with  the  exception  of  the 
"Diana,"  which  soars  so  proudly  over  Stanford  White's 
beautiful  Sevillian  tower  on  Madison  Square.  Another 
statue,  of  "Silence,"  he  modelled  about  this  time,  or  a 
little  later,  in  Rome;    and  years  after,  swearing  me  to 


222      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

secrecy,  he  took  me  where  it  stood  in  the  Masonic 
Temple,  in  a  semi-public  position  here  in  New  York. 
I  should  keep  the  secret  even  now,  but  many  of  my 
readers  will  have  seen  it,  before  these  lines  are  printed, 
in  the  Memorial  Exhibition  of  the  works  of  Saint- 
Gaudens,  at  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Art  in  New 
York,  and  will  have  found  it  to  be  a  more  than  credit- 
able work,  which,  in  common  with  the  "  Hiawatha," 
the  sensitive  sculptor  persistently  undervalued,  for  the 
comparison  which  he  made,  with  later  and  more 
mature  work,  was  eminently  unjust.  In  badinage,  the 
"Silence"  was  dubbed  the  "dark  secret,"  and  the 
threat  of  its  disclosure  was  enough  to  excite  very  real 
distress  on  the  part  of  the  sculptor,  whose  self-criticism 
of  his  production  grew  with  his  years. 

I  watched  with  interest  the  first  work  which  I  saw 
him  undertake,  the  first  measure  of  his  talent  that  I 
could  form,  for  he  had  arrived  in  Paris  almost  empty- 
handed,  so  far  as  his  previous  efforts  were  concerned; 
some  small  portrait  medallions  being  the  only  examples 
of  his  art  which  he  had  brought. 

This  first  work  was,  to  my  delight,  decorative  in 
character,  and  was  to  be  placed  as  a  reredos,  between 
two  large  canvases,  by  John  La  Farge,  in  the  chancel 
of  St.  Thomas'  Church  in  New  York.  The  reredos 
consisted  of  a  composition  of  angels  kneeling,  sym- 
metrically disposed  two  by  two  in  panels  one  above  the 
other,  around  a  cross  extending  from  the  top  to  the 
bottom  of  the  united  and  superimposed  panels.  It 
was  to  be  cast  in  cement,  and  to  overcome  the  contrast 
of  its  whiteness  in  juxtaposition  with  the  painted 
decorations   which   flanked   it   on   either   side,   Saint- 


A  NEW   FRIEND  AND   HIS   WORK      223 

Gaudens  proposed  to  gild  it,  and  then  tone  it  down  to 
harmonize  with  La  Farge's  work. 

To  this  I  proffered  the  objection  "  that  it  would  look 
like  a  sham  bronze,"  and  suggested  that  a  treatment 
of  the  surface  in  polychrome,  avoiding  any  naturalistic 
tinting  of  the  flesh  or  draperies,  but  giving  the  whole 
a  vari-coloured,  subdued  tone,  would  be  better.  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  once  adopted  my  suggestion,  and  asked 
me  to  treat  the  surfaces  of  his  bas-reliefs  in  colour  as  I 
proposed;  thus  affording  me  my  first  opportunity  to 
put  into  practice  the  decorative  theories  of  which,  in 
an  instinctive  and  vague  fashion,  I  had  long  enjoyed  a 
monopoly  among  my  comrades,  all  more  interested  in 
realistic  work  than  I. 

I  admired  from  the  first  the  easy  competence  of  my 
friend  for  the  task  before  him.  The  figures  in  the 
relief  were  of  life  size,  and  their  attitudes  were  similar 
as  they  all  knelt  in  adoration  of  the  cross.  Without  a 
preliminary  sketch,  not  using  a  living  model,  I  watched 
the  bevy  of  angels  grow;  and,  by  a  turn  of  the  head 
here,  a  variation  of  the  attitude  there,  by  differing  dis- 
positions of  the  hands  or  the  folds  of  the  drapery, 
sufficient  variety  was  obtained  to  break  the  rigidity  of 
a  voluntarily  formal  composition. 

Destined  to  be  seen  in  a  subdued  light,  strong  accents 
were  left,  and  little  subtlety  of  form  was  attempted; 
but,  as  I  saw  the  clay  become  vitalized  under  the  deft 
touch  of  the  sculptor,  I  realized  that  the  tradition  of 
the  school  concerning  his  talent  reposed  on  a  firm 
foundation,  and  that  he  possessed  his  inetier,  as  I  knew 
very  few,  even  of  my  French  comrades,  possessed 
theirs,  although  this  quality  was  more  common  in  the 


224      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

French  sculpture  of  that  period  than  with  any  other 
nation  or  at  almost  any  previous  epoch  of  art. 

I  insist  upon  the  facility  of  Saint-Gaudens'  work  at 
that  time,  as  well  as  upon  the  extreme  rapidity  of  his 
execution  of  this  reredos,  because  later  in  his  career, 
when  in  the  tide  of  production  of  the  great  works,  by 
which  his  name  will  be  preserved,  he  became  the  fable 
of  the  studios  and  the  despair  of  the  committees,  who 
were  forced  to  wait  months  and  years  while  the  fastid- 
ious sculptor  apparently  hesitated,  changed  his  purpose, 
tore  down  all  but  completed  work,  and,  but  for  the 
complete  success  with  which  he  emerged  from  this 
cloud  of  indecision,  appeared  to  retain  but  little  of  the 
direct  method  of  his  earlier  work.  But  it  is  to  be  re- 
membered that  he  was  then  comparatively  fresh  from 
school,  where  technical  qualities  are  alone  considered 
important;  that  the  reredos  was,  with  all  its  charm  of 
sentiment,  merely  an  enlarged  sketch  of  decorative  in- 
tent; and  that  few  of  the  graver  problems  of  his  nobler 
work  were  present  before  him  as,  with  a  fine  facility, 
these  angelic  figures  fairly  sprang  into  existence. 

The  type  of  the  figures  thus  evolved  possessed  a 
strange  charm;  an  early  evocation  of  one  which  in  his 
later  work  became  thoroughly  his  own;  and  which, 
with  differing  expression  and  variety  of  character,  can 
be  traced  in  the  Victory  preceding  the  grim  general 
on  his  march  to  the  sea;  in  Death  hovering  over  the 
boy-warrior  at  the  head  of  his  negro  soldiers;  or  in 
the  enigmatic  figure  that  guards  the  tomb  in  Wash- 
ington. 

In  these  later  evocations  the  Celt  can  be  discerned 
(I    have   seen   a  drawing  which  the  son  made  of  his 


A  NEW   FRIEND   AND   HIS   WORK      225 

Irish  mother  in  which  something  of  this  wistful  beauty 
of  expression  was  latent),  though  an  element  of  resource- 
ful serenity,  a  confident  outlook  upon  life,  also  pres- 
ent in  this  composite  type,  I  would  fain  claim  for 
America. 

And  so  these  figures  grew — one  for  each  day's  work. 
The  sculptor  meanwhile  chatted  gayly,  first  in  French, 
then  in  English,  with  idiomatic  command  of  the  slang 
of  either  language;  with  graver  intervals  when  he  told 
of  the  projects  of  the  little  band  at  home  and  the  pur- 
poses of  the  new  Society.  He  had  much  to  say,  also, 
of  the  painter  whose  works  were  to  form  the  major 
part  of  the  decoration  in  which  his  bas-relief  was  to 
figure,  to  which  I  listened  intently,  for  before  I  had 
left  New  York,  a  single  visit  to  the  studio  of  this  painter 
and  the  few  works  which  I  had  seen  by  him  elsewhere, 
had  given  him  a  high  place  in  my  appreciation.  He 
told  me  of  the  decoration  of  Trinity  Church  in  Boston, 
under  the  control  of  this  master,  aided  by  a  number  of 
the  men  I  knew  or  had  heard  of,  among  them  Saint- 
Gaudens  himself,  for  the  time  being  turning  painter; 
and  as  he  told  the  story  it  sounded  like  some  tale  of 
Renaissance  times  taken  from  the  pages  of  Cellini  or 
Vasari. 

More  and  more  as  I  listened  I  grew  to  feel  that  my 
careless  prophecy  to  Bob  Stevenson  in  the  garden  at 
Montigny  might  perchance  have  an  element  of  truth 
and  become  realized  in  my  native  land;  though  I 
could  not — would  hardly  have  dared — foresee  far  enough 
into  the  future,  to  know  that  I  should  pass  a  year  side 
by  side  and  under  the  influence  of  the  man  of  whom  we 
spoke,  and  whose  mastery  we  acknowledged. 


226      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

When  the  various  panels  of  the  bas-relief  were 
finished  in  the  clay  and  cast  in  cement,  they  were 
placed  on  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  studio,  arranged  in 
the  order  they  were  to  be  seen  in  the  chancel,  and  my 
part  of  the  task  began.  Gradually  the  chalky  white 
of  the  cement  gave  way  to  a  more  sombre  richness  of 
hue,  and  high  on  my  ladder,  with  Saint-Gaudens  at 
the  other  end  of  the  studio  directing  me  to  darken  an 
accent  in  one  place  or  lighten  a  plane  in  another, 
I  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  sweets  of  working  upon 
a  generous  scale,  and  of  harmonizing  masses  of  colour 
to  form  a  rich  pattern  over  a  great  surface. 

One  evening,  when  the  colouring  was  finished  to  our 
satisfaction,  we  made  a  visit  to  several  neighbouring 
grocery-shops  and  purchased  a  large  part  of  their 
stock  of  candles  in  order  to  try  the  effect  of  the  artificial 
light,  under  which  the  work  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
chancel  of  St.  Thomas'  Church.  The  candles  were  set 
up  in  lumps  and  strips  of  clay,  as  temporary  holders, 
and  then  lighted.  We  opened  the  big  studio  doors 
looking  out  on  the  passage  way  to  the  street,  in  order 
to  judge  the  work  from  a  distance;  and  the  soft  illu- 
mination of  the  candles — there  were  more  than  a 
hundred — was  extremely  satisfactory  to  the  two  deco- 
rators. 

This  illumination  naturally  created  a  certain  interest 
among  the  rare  passers-by,  one  of  whom,  an  old  woman, 
promptly  dropped  to  her  knees  and  uttered  a  prayer. 
Saint-Gaudens  asked  her,  when  she  rose,  if  she  liked 
the  work — he  welcomed  then,  and  after,  the  naive 
criticisms  of  the  ignorant — and  she  exclaimed:  " Mon 
Dieu!  comme  c'est  beau,  It  is  like  Heaven!" 


A  NEW  FRIEND  AND   HIS  WORK     227 

Saint-Gaudens  was  occasionally  absent  from  the 
studio,  of  course,  and  it  so  happened  that  on  three  or 
four  occasions  I  was  visited  by  either  Bob  or  Louis 
Stevenson  when  he  w^as  away,  so  that  he  never  met 
Bob,  and  ten  years  were  to  elapse  before  he  and  Louis 
were  to  become  friends.  During  this  period  of  sharing 
his  studio  I  managed  to  finish  a  number  of  small 
pictures,  some  of  them  begun  at  Montigny  the  pre- 
vious year,  and  remarkably  enough,  as  it  seemed  at 
the  time,  and  largely  through  the  effort  of  my  friend, 
I  disposed  of  these  to  various  residents  of  the  American 
quarter — compatriots  whose  society  I  had  shunned  in 
my  contentment  with  Gallic  surroundings  in  a  manner 
which,  as  one  frequentation  need  not  have  precluded 
the  other,  my  frank  friend  characterized  truly  as 
"simply  idiotic."  These  sales  enabled  me  to  clear  up 
some  slight  past  indebtedness,  and  to  quit  Paris  more 
care-free  than  I  otherwise  could  have  done,  while  add- 
ing to  my  provision  for  the  home  journey  on  a  scale  of 
comparative  comfort. 

Mention  of  these  sales  brings  to  mind  the  encounter 
with  one  who,  surely,  must  have  been  the  meanest  man 
on  earth,  though  the  episode  is  in  no  way  connected 
with  the  time  of  these  fortunate  commercial  transac- 
tions, having  happened  in  the  early  spring  before 
meeting  Saint-Gaudens,  and  before  my  trip  down  the 
Seine,  a  period  which  I  look  back  upon  as  one  of 
utter  despair. 

Some  months  previously  I  had  painted  a  little  picture: 
four  or  five  figures,  among  them  a  girl  coming  out  of 
church  on  the  arm  of  an  old  woman,  a  young  lover 
eyeing  her  shyly,  and  a  rather  pretty  background  of  a 


228       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


picturesque  old  church  at  Arbonne  near  Fontainebleau. 
The  figures  were  in  mediaeval  costume,  partly  from 
imagination,  partly  painted  from  the  lay-figure,  and  a 
little  from  nature — all  rather  carefully  finished  and, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  a  real  picture-dealer's  picture. 
Carolus-Duran  had  liked  it,  and  on  my  telling  him 
that  Goupil,  Sedelmeyer,  and  other  dealers  refused  to 
consider  it,  he  said  that  he  thought  that  by  taking  it 
to  his  studio  he  could  surely  dispose  of  it  for  me,  per- 
haps to  some  one  of  my  rich  compatriots,  who  were 
among  his  most  numerous  sitters.  "What  do  you  ask 
for  it?"  he  inquired,  and,  on  my  teUing  him  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  francs,  he  exclaimed  that  it  was  not 
enough,  and  that  he  should  demand  double  the  price 
that  I  placed  upon  it. 

The  picture  was  sent  to  his  studio,  where  it  remained 
some  time,  I  hearing  nothing  of  it  meanwhile.  At 
last  one  day,  when  the  wolf  was  snarling  a  little  more 
audibly  than  usual  outside  my  door,  I  went  to  my 
master  and  reclaimed  the  picture.  He  was  very  kind 
and  said  that  he  regretted  to  have  been  unable  to  find 
a  purchaser  for  it. 

Knowing  it  to  be  useless  to  seek  the  larger  dealers, 
the  picture  was  taken  to  a  dealer  in  bric-a-brac  and 
various  odds  and  ends,  in  some  street  in  the  Hotel 
Druout  quarter,  who,  after  consulting  his  Salon  cata- 
logues to  make  sure  that  my  claim  to  have  exhibited 
was  founded  on  truth,  finally  purchased  it  for  the  mag- 
nificent sum  of  twenty  francs. 

One  receives  a  buffet  like  this  with  whatever  philoso- 
phy one  possesses;  twenty  francs  loomed  large  in  my 
exchequer   in   those   days;     they   had   their   immediate 


A  NEW  FRIEND  AND  HIS  WORK     229 


uses,  and  the  incident  was  all  but  forgotten  when,  one 
day  in  company  with  some  of  my  comrades,  exchang- 
ing, probably,  as  we  often  had  occasion  to  do,  hard- 
luck  stories,  I  related  the  history  detailed  above. 

Some  of  my  friends  must  have  been  so  indiscreet  as 
to  repeat  the  story  and  mention  my  name,  for  about  a 
week  after  a  knock  came  at  my  door,  and  I  opened  it 
to  welcome  a  most  unusual  visitor;  unusual  in  the  prim 
immaculateness  of  his  attire,  gloved  and  shod  with 
equal  propriety,  and  exhaling  a  veritable  odour  of 
prosperity.  He  gave  me  his  name,  which  I  have 
gladly  forgotten,  claimed  to  be  an  American,  and  said 
that  he  had  heard  of  me  and  greatly  desired  to  see 
my  work. 

I  had  several  pictures  to  show,  works  calculated,  in 
their  intention,  to  please  and  all  at  prices,  when  his 
admiration  took  that  welcome  form  of  appreciation, 
that  were  extremely  modest.  He  bhthely  ran  the  gamut 
of  compliment,  seemed  only  to  hesitate  which  of  these 
delightful  works  he  most  desired  to  possess,  and  then, 
without  any  transition  of  manner  or  change  in  his 
high-bred  intonation,  he  said:  "By  the  way,  I  heard 
the  other  day  a  most  interesting  story  about  a  picture 
which  you  sold  for  twenty  francs,  and  it  occurred  to 
me  that  I  would  come  and  get  the  address  of  that 
dealer,  so  that  by  offering  him  perhaps  the  double  I 
could — "  I  heard  no  more,  but  fairly  sprang  for  my 
door,  threw  it  open,  and  ordered  him  out,  with  words 
which,  since  I  am  not  the  Recording  Angel,  I  will  not 
put  down  here.  As  unruffled  as  when  he  entered,  only 
deprecatingly  referring  to  my  shocking  language  and 
unmannerly  behaviour,  he  left;   and  I  sat  down,  rudely 


230      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

shaken,  to  a  gradual  realization  that  I  had  met  the 
meanest  man  in  the  world. 

Like  Charles  the  Second,  I  was  long  in  relinquishing 
my  hold  upon  life — the  Hfe  of  Paris — but  at  last  the 
moment  came.  I  had  one  more  long  and  very  serious 
talk  with  Louis  Stevenson,  seated  on  a  bench  in  the 
Pare  Monceau.  None  of  our  many  confidences  have 
left  so  strong  an  impress,  save  one  other,  where,  on  a 
star-ht  beach,  we  walked  and  talked  shortly  before 
he  was  to  leave  the  quiet  countryside  by  the  sea,  where 
we  had  spent  a  happy  month,  to  cross  the  continent 
and  take  ship  for  the  South  Seas.  This  farewell  over, 
one  night  Saint-Gaudens  accompanied  me  to  the  Gare 
St.  Lazare,  and  there  we  said  good-by  to  each  other, 
and  I  left  Paris  the  richer  for  a  newly  gained  friend. 
I  was  bound  for  Normandy,  to  pass  a  fortnight  with 
my  wife's  people,  and  then  from  Havre  to  regain  my 
native  land. 

Thus  it  was  that,  at  the  approach  of  the  Christmas 
holidays,  I  once  more  trod  the  soil  of  my  country  and 
came  home  to  my  father's  house. 


^^^R,^ig 

mi                                               •m 

^^^^^^HKP^ 

^^B^Bv*^ 

^^^^^^^^^^^Bbr , 

-  ^'^              1 

^B^^^^^^^WfciL 

^■b             -!»              '^ 

^^^H^^K^^^|^^^^^^BH|||ikHrf| 

Augustus  Saint-Gaudens 

Skftc  h  from  life,  1S77 


XIX 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ARGONAUT 

IT  was  to  a  New  York  where  all  above  Twenty- 
third  Street  was  still  "up-town"  that  I  returned  to 
find  many  of  my  old  associates  housed  in  the  same 
quarter  as  where  I  had  left  them.     In  other  respects  I 
had  the  common  experience  of  one  who  returns  after  a 
long  absence. 

New  relations,  the  natural  progress  in  directions 
abandoned  by  the  absent  one,  and  the  insistent  duties 
of  the  day,  in  which  I  shared  no  part,  preoccupied  my 
earlier  friends.  After  a  hearty  welcome,  somewhat 
boisterous,  as  though  to  prove  its  sincerity,  a  certain 
number  of  questions  asked  and  answered,  the  conversa- 
tion languished  and,  when  the  newly  returned  went 
his  way  in  quest  of  another  "old  friend,"  the  visited 
resumed  his  daily  and  accustomed  task,  while  the 
visitor  took  up  the  round  of  renewing  old  ties  with  a 
puzzled  sense  of  change,  of  which  he  was  reluctant  to 
accept  his  part  of  responsibility. 

Other  conditions  accentuated  the  sense  of  being 
extraneous  to  the  life  on  Manhattan;  and  in  this  I  was 
not  alone,  for  this  time  saw  the  return  of  a  number  of 
young  painters  from  their  studies  abroad;  argonauts 
bearing  what  they  fondly  conceived  to  be  the  golden 
fleece,  ravished  from  the  old  art  of  Europe,  to  find  that 
it  was  esteemed  to  be  only  dross  by  the  self-sufficient 
inhabitants  of  our  Island. 

231 


232      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

One  of  the  newly  returned,  cynical  in  his  humour, 
said  about  this  time:  "Yes,  we  return  from  Europe, 
undecided  whether  we'll  go  back  to  Paris  for  the  rest 
of  our  life,  or  stay  here  and  build  a  studio  big  enough 
for  our  work;  and  then,  after  a  little,  we're  blamed 
glad  to  make  drawings  for  some  magazine  at  thirty 
dollars  per  drawing." 

This  paints  rather  accurately  the  state  of  mind — and 
the  finances — of  the  "younger  men,"  as  the  press  and 
the  Academy  dubbed  these  home-comers;  a  title  by 
which  they  were  complaisantly  known  during  all  the 
twenty-seven  years  of  the  duration  of  the  Society  of 
American  Artists,  which  they  founded. 

Fortunately,  they  had  all,  more  or  less,  as  a  birth- 
right, the  resourceful  spirit  of  their  country,  and  where 
they  found  their  compatriots  reluctant  to  encourage 
the  form  of  art  which  their  training  perhaps  best 
fitted  them  to  do,  they  have  modified  their  production, 
not  so  much  in  the  research  of  popularity  as  in  obe- 
dience to  the  common  law  of  demand  and  supply. 
Under  these  conditions,  most  of  the  men  of  that  time 
have  earned  their  living,  some  of  them  have  achieved 
a  wide-spread  reputation  as  artists,  and  a  few  of  them 
have  produced  works  that  reflect  glory  upon  their 
native  land. 

I  found  Wyatt  Eaton,  who  had  returned  to  New 
York  the  previous  year,  already  well  established.  He 
had  arrived  at  a  propitious  moment,  when  the  Woman's 
Art  School  of  Cooper  Union  lacked  an  instructor,  and 
had  been  given  the  position.  With  his  faculty  of  liking 
people,  and  making  them  like  him,  he  had  also  assem- 
Ijled  in  his  private  studio  a  large  class  of  girl  pupils, 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE  ARGONAUT   233 


and  these  two  sources  of  revenue,  combined  with  an 
occasional  portrait  which  came  his  way,  produced  an 
income,  which,  as  I  naturally  and  at  once  multiplied 
it  into  francs,  seemed  prodigious;  especially  as  I  had 
not  as  yet  learned  the  comparative  cost  of  living 
between  New  York  and  Paris. 

Under  his  guidance,  for  he  was  the  most  serviceable 
of  friends,  I  was  taken  to  the  art  editor  of  a  magazine, 
that  had  rather  scorned  my  services  in  my  earlier  career 
in  New  York,  and  a  manuscript  was  confided  to  me 
for  illustration,  at  a  price  at  which  my  Paris  friends 
would  have  marvelled;  though  their  wonder  would 
have  been  modified  by  learning  the  rent  of  the  modest 
studio  which  I  now  leased. 

The  commercial  aspects  of  my  craft  were,  very  prop- 
erly, present  to  my  mind  as  I  faced  a  new  life  under 
new  conditions;  but  if  more  blessed  by  fortune  it  had 
been  otherwise,  there  were,  outside  of  a  very  limited 
circle,  mostly  composed  of  artists,  very  few  that  I  met 
in  my  new  environment  whose  thoughts  appeared  to 
have  other  than  a  commercial  preoccupation. 

The  young  artist  returning  from  his  studies  abroad 
to-day  finds  more  sympathetic  conditions  awaiting  him, 
for  interest  in  our  art  has  grown  with  its  progress  since 
the  time  of  which  I  write.  If  we  still  lack  the  full 
recognition  of  art  as  a  factor  of  life,  which  has  grown 
through  centuries  of  effort  in  the  Old  World,  the 
present  affords  some  recompense  to  the  generation  that 
has  worked  for  these  better  conditions,  and  the  future 
smiles  encouragingly  upon  the  aspirants  to  come. 

Perhaps  some  vision  of  this  future  was  even  ther 
apparent  to  four  young  artists  who  met,  on  the  eveniii>^ 


234      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

of  the  first  of  June,  1877,  at  103  East  Fifteenth  Street, 
in  the  City  of  New  York. 

They  were  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens,  Wyatt  Eaton, 
Walter  Shirlaw,  and  Helena  de  Kay  Gilder,  of  whom 
Mr.  Shirlaw — I  quote  from  the  minutes  of  the  Society — 
was  "unanimously"  selected  as  Chairman,  and  later 
was  made  its  first  President.  "Mr.  Saint-Gaudens 
made  the  following  motion:  Resolved:  That  an  asso- 
ciation be  formed  by  those  present  with  the  object  of 
advancing  the  interests  of  Art  in  America;  the  same  to 
be  entitled  The  American  Art  Association." 

Two  or  three  more  meetings  were  held,  at  which 
the  new  organization,  soon  adopting  the  name  of  the 
Society  of  American  Artists  in  place  of  the  title  first 
chosen,  increased  its  membership  by  the  inclusion  of 
certain  members  of  the  Academy  and  of  some  of  the 
younger  artists  resident  in  the  city  or  recently  returned 
from  their  studies.  This  carried  the  organization 
over  to  the  following  year,  when,  on  the  evening  of 
January  28,  1878,  Eaton  asked  me  to  be  present  at  a 
meeting  of  the  new  Society. 

The  meetings  at  that  time  were  held  in  that  pleas- 
ant house  which,  deserted  by  its  former  occupants,  still 
hides  behind  a  recently  constructed  bank  building,  its 
front  still  ornamented  with  two  medallions  by  Saint- 
Gaudens.  It  was  approached  through  iron  railings, 
which  separated  it  from  the  street,  along  a  flag-paved 
way  bordered  on  one  side  by  a  garden  where,  as  the 
poet  sang,  "The  barber  took  care  of  the  flowers."  It 
had  originally  been  a  carriage  house,  the  large  room 
where  we  have  spent  so  many  pleasant  evenings,  owed 
its  dimensions  to  this    previous  occupancy,  and  had 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ARGONAUT  235 

been  altered  into  a  dwelling  for  the  uses  of  a  young 
couple.  Of  these,  the  wife  was  one  of  the  four  who 
had  met  the  previous  June  and,  though  she  has  aban- 
doned the  practice  of  her  art  for  a  social  sphere,  in 
which  her  talents  find  equal  employment,  she  was  at 
that  time  an  active  member  of  the  Society.  The  hus- 
band was  hardly  less  interested  and  influential  in  those 
earlier  days.  I  fancy  that  the  minutes  of  the  meetings, 
in  the  pages  yellowed  by  age,  are  in  his  handwriting; 
for  later  I  find  a  vote  of  thanks  tendered  him  for  his 
"efficient  services." 

The  meeting  had  been  called  to  order  when  I  entered 
with  Eaton,  but  the  proceedings  were  suspended  to 
greet  the  newcomer  from  Paris.  I  found  several  old 
friends,  both  of  my  Paris  and  my  earlier  New  York 
days,  present,  and  was  made  known  to  others  who 
I  count  as  my  friends  to-day. 

So  informal  were  the  customs  of  the  new  Society, 
that,  when  the  proceedings  were  resumed,  no  one 
appeared  to  mark  the  presence  of  a  non-member  until 
he,  though  woefully  ignorant  of  parliamentary  proced- 
ure, called  the  attention  of  the  meeting  to  the  fact. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then,  with  much 
heartiness,  some  one  proposed  my  election.  It  seemed 
but  proper  that  I  should  retire  during  the  ballot,  and 
so  the  hostess  conducted  me  to  an  upper  room,  apolo- 
gizing for  leaving  me  in  the  dark  and  cautioning  me  to 
keep  quiet,  lest  I  should  arouse  an  infant  sleeping  in 
the  cradle.  As  I  knew  the  drastic  rule — that  member- 
ship at  that  time  was  only  bestowed  by  an  unanimous 
vote  of  the  fourteen  members  of  the  Society — I  thought 
it  prudent  to  inquire   whisperingly  of  my   hostess,   if 


236       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

there  were  means  of  egress  from  the  house,  without 
traversing  the  room  where  the  meeting  was  held,  in 
case  the  verdict  should  not  be  favourable  to  me.  She 
showed  me  such  an  issue,  at  the  same  time  kindly  re- 
assuring me  that  I  would  not  need  to  use  it,  and  left 
me  fairly  holding  my  breath,  between  my  mingled 
anxiety  as  to  the  result  of  the  vote  and  the  fear  that  I 
might  wake  the  sleeping  babe  and  consequently  in- 
terrupt the  proceedings  of  the  deliberative  assembly 
downstairs. 

In  a  very  few  minutes  Eaton  came  to  give  me  the 
welcome  news  that  I  was  the  fifteenth  elected  member 
of  the  Society  of  American  Artists,  an  honour  which, 
conferred  in  this  unpretentious  manner,  I  considered 
then,  and  have  never  faltered  in  the  conviction,  as  great 
as  any  that  may  have  befallen  me. 

The  first  exhibition  of  the  S.  A.  A.,  as  we  soon 
learned  to  abbreviate  its  name,  was  held  a  few  months 
later,  and  for  that,  and  for  the  few  subsequent  exhibi- 
tions, the  material  questions  of  meeting  our  expenses 
were  only  solved  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  Most  of 
the  members  had  little  money  or  credit  beyond  their 
urgent  needs,  yet  what  little  they  had  they  pledged, 
in  order  to  give  their  city  a  series  of  exhibitions  of  a 
merit  theretofore  unknown — as  the  critical  press  soon 
acknowledged — but  in  which  the  public  took  but  a 
languid  interest.  This  was  indeed  true  to  the  end, 
for  I  doubt  if  the  Society  ever  realized  from  attendance 
at  any  of  its  twenty-seven  consecutive  exhibitions  a 
sum  equal  to  the  outlay  of  assembling  and  exhibiting 
the  works  of  art  there  shown.  To  meet  these  expenses, 
dues  of  ten  dollars  per  annum  were  exacted,  and  in  the 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE  ARGONAUT   237 

early  days,  when,  after  a  particularly  disastrous  ex- 
hibition—financially speaking — an  assessment  in  addi- 
tion to  these  dues  was  levied,  it  nearly  ruined  more 
than  one  self-sacrificing  member  of  the  Society.  For 
these  dues  no  privileges  of  exemption  from  judgment 
were  accorded  to  members,  who  submitted  their  works 
to  the  jury  on  the  same  terms  as  artists  outside  their 
ranks.  This  feature,  which  differed  from  the  practice 
of  every  other  art  organization  in  the  world,  may  be 
said  to  be  the  best  and  most  distinctive  reason  for  the 
Society's  existence,  and  for  its  continued  beneficial 
action  throughout  its  career.  To  this  was  soon  added 
a  jury  composed  of  so  large  a  number  that  every  shade 
of  opinion  in  matters  artistic  may  be  said  to  have  been 
represented,  while  their  numerical  strength  effectually 
prevented  any  one  of  these  various  phases  of  art  from 
receiving  more  than  its  due  meed  of  favour  among  the 
works  received. 

Without  adopting  either  of  these  two  distinctive 
features,  the  National  Academy  of  Design  was  in  no 
wise  laggard  in  meeting  the  friendly  competition  of 
the  younger  Society,  by  showing  an  increased  catho- 
licity of  choice  in  the  works  shown  in  their  exhi- 
bitions, and  after  a  time  by  the  admission  of  the 
"younger  men"  into  their  ranks  as  Associates  or 
Academicians. 

To  abridge  what  would  be,  if  it  found  place  here, 
the  history  of  American  Art  in  the  past  thirty  years,  it 
may  be  said  that  what  the  press  continuously  termed 
the  "quarrel  of  the  artists"  was  quickly  healed,  and 
for  many  years  the  two  institutions  went  their  way 
side  by  side,  if  not  hand  in  hand.     By  continuous  elec- 


238       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

tions  of  members  chosen  from  the  "younger  element," 
the  older  institution  became  virtually  uniform  with  the 
Society.  Many  of  the  men,  who  thus  became  members 
of  both  associations,  some  of  them  among  the  earliest 
and  continuously  enthusiastic  adherents  of  the  Society, 
have  seen,  for  ten  years  past,  the  immense  advantage 
that  would  accrue  to  our  art  if  all  its  practitioners 
could  be  enrolled  under  one  banner,  and  the  great 
public  could  be  made  to  understand  how  essentially 
united  in  the  desire  to  promote  its  interests  for  their 
benefit  were  the  entire  body  of  artists.  Finally,  after 
much  desultory  agreement  of  a  general  nature,  lasting 
over  a  number  of  years,  special  action  was  instituted, 
and  it  was  quickly  found  that  a  definite  understanding 
could  be  reached. 

The  National  Academy  of  Design  and  the  Society  of 
American  Artists  were  thus  merged;  the  older  organiza- 
tion retaining  its  name,  which  has  been  held  honour- 
able for  more  than  eighty  years,  and  the  younger,  its 
work  done  and  well  done,  losing  its  identity,  but  be- 
stowing its  two  essential  features:  the  jury  composed 
of  thirty  members  and,  virtually,  the  submission  of 
members'  contributions  of  works  to  its  exhibitions  to 
this  jury  upon  the  same  terms  as  all  other  works 
offered.  A  more  active  participation  in  the  work  of 
the  Academy,  on  the  part  of  the  Associates,  in  con- 
junction with  the  Academicians,  was  also  a  part  of 
this  agreement  under  which  our  art  may  show  an 
united  front  and  march  progressively  to  a  larger  use- 
fulness. 

Again,  by  thus  resuming  the  action  of  a  later  period, 
I  find  myself  far  from  the  New  York  of  1878,  to  which 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ARGONAUT  239 

I  would  return  for  a  moment's  stay  in  the  little  house 
in  Fifteenth  Street,  where  so  many  of  us  found  an 
oasis  in  the  first  few  years  after  the  return  to  our  desert 
home;  as  it  appeared  in  comparison  with  the  more 
flowering  regions  of  art  whence  we  came. 

To  the  hospitable  welcome  of  this  modest  dwelling, 
every  one  who  came  to  New  York  in  those  days,  bear- 
ing a  passport  of  intellectual  worth,  appeared  to  find 
his  way. 

How  many,  who  to-day  are  dispersed  to  the  four 
corners  of  our  city,  and  who  see  each  other  rarely — 
though,  it  is  but  fair  to  say,  when  these  rare  meetings 
occur,  this  early  association  still  adds  warmth  to  the 
greeting — how  many  more,  birds  of  passage,  are  scat- 
tered to  the  four  corners  of  the  globe — carrying  with 
them  a  pleasant  memory  of  evenings  in  this  company — 
and  all  too  many  are  flown  on  the  four  winds  of  Heaven 
— where  may  Paradise  be  clement  to  them! 

On  summer  evenings,  the  great  doors,  which  had 
been  retained  from  the  carriage  house,  would  be  opened 
and,  sheltered  from  the  street,  chairs  would  be  brought 
to  the  courtyard,  where  pleasant  talk  and  equally 
pleasant  listening  would  chase  away  the  cares  of  the 
day.  Here  we  w^ould  have  Modjeska,  then  making  her 
first  eff"orts  in  our  rebellious  tongue,  but  voluble  in 
French,  with  the  charm  that  those  who  knew  her 
Rosalind  so  well  remember.  How  vividly  comes  back 
an  evening  when  Walt  Whitman  conversed  in  his 
Manhattanese  with  the  Polish  actress,  she  at  each 
moment  turning  to  one  of  us  for  a  word  in  English,  or, 
with  peals  of  laughter,  confessing  her  inability  to  follow 
*'the  good  gray  poet." 


240       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

Quite  different  was  her  meeting  there  with  Remenji, 
the  viohnist.  They  had  not  met  for  a  number  of  years, 
and  the  interval  had  seen  the  rise  and  failure  of  the 
Polish  agricultural  colony  in  California  with  which  the 
generous  woman  had  cast  her  lot.  Remenji's  comical 
regret  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  see  her  when  en- 
gaged in  the  strange  occupation  of  rearing  little  pigs, 
^^  Ah  non!  non!  non!  les  petits  cochons,  c'est  trop  fort,'* 
quite  convulsed  the  whole  assembly. 

The  recollections  of  this  refuge  of  those  early  days 
might  readily  become  a  mere  record  of  names,  some 
of  them  famous,  but  all  borne  by  men  and  women 
whom  it  was  a  privilege  to  meet;  a  privilege  that  was 
the  greater  because,  for  a  long  period,  the  sense  of 
having  lost  touch  with  one's  native  land  persisted. 

For  this,  at  this  late  day,  I  can  place  the  larger  part 
of  the  responsibihty  upon  the  home-comer,  who,  at 
first,  failed  to  perceive  the  definite  trend  of  the  new 
conditions  confronting  him.  At  last  by  voluntary 
effort  on  his  part,  aided  by  some  kindly  magic  of  the 
powers  at  work  in  the  making  of  our  "Little  Old-New 
York,"  the  veil  was  lifted,  and  a  glad  volunteer  was 
added  to  the  army,  enlisted  to  erect  at  the  sea-gate 
of  our  country  the  foundations  of  a  newer,  more  pro- 
gressive citadel  of  light  than  the  world  has  yet 
seen. 

Enrolled  for  this  task,  which  the  future  still  holds 
before  us,  the  prospect  grew,  and  little  by  little,  step 
by  step,  treading  the  old  familiar  road,  which  in  every 
country  of  the  world  the  artist  finds  under  his  feet,  a 
convinced  optimist,  an  atom  of  these  concentrated 
forces,  took  his  way,  cheered  by  the  lines  first  heard 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE  ARGONAUT   241 

under  the  roof  in  Fifteenth  Street,  where  they  had  their 
birth : 

Following  the  sun:   Westward  the  march  of  power; 
The  Rose  of  Might  blooms  in  our  new-world  mart; 
But  see,  just  bursting  forth  from  bud  to  flower, 
A  late  slow  growth,  the  fairer  Rose  of  Art. 


XX 

EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES  OF  HOME 

NO  feature  of  our  life  at  that  time  was  more  pleas- 
ant than  the  welcome  given  to  our  ruthless,  icono- 
clastic band  by  certain  men  among  our  seniors. 
Several  of  these  hailed  the  foundation  of  the  Society  of 
American  Artists  as  the  advent  of  a  new  day.  George 
Fuller — who,  before  the  birth  of  most  of  us,  had  relin- 
quished his  art,  beaten,  baffled,  and  unappreciated  at 
the  time,  and  had  taken  to  farming,  only  to  return  to 
his  first  love  at  the  dawning  of  a  better  day — came  to 
us  like  some  Rip  Van  Winkle  of  the  arts  newly  awak- 
ened. He  was  in  spirit  among  the  youngest  of  the 
members  of  the  new  Society,  coming  from  Boston  to 
its  earlier  meetings,  simply  and  frankly  happy  to  find 
that  his  art,  groping  and  elusive  as  it  was  at  times, 
seeking  expression  through  technical  methods  alien  to 
those  to  which  we  adhered,  found  warm  admiration 
in  our  appreciation,  and  was  allotted  honourable  place 
in  our  exhibitions.  Homer  Martin  also  brought  his 
subtle  art  to  the  strengthening  of  our  effort,  and  the 
charm  of  his  witty  and  illuminating  personahty  to  our 
meetings.  He  had  sat  almost  alone  for  many  years 
in  that  little  sky-lit  studio  that  some  of  us  remember 
in  the  old  studio  building  on  Tenth  Street,  working 
out  the  problems  of  his  art  for  and  by  himself  so  suc- 
cessfully that,  in  his  chosen  field  of  landscape,  we  have 
not  yet  known  among  American   painters  one  whose 

242 


EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES        243 

gift  was  rarer  or  more  personal.  I  was  fortunate  in 
having  acquaintance  with  Martin  from  my  earliest 
childhood,  as  we  were  both  born  in  the  old  city  of 
Albany,  the  subject  of  an  oft-quoted  jest  of  the  late 
George  H.  Boughton,  who  passed  his  earlier  years 
there  also:  that  "many  artists  came  from  Albany, 
and  that  there  was  no  better  place  to  come  from."  In 
my  earlier  experience  in  New  York  I  had  therefore 
been  privileged  to  frequent  Martin's  studio  and,  as 
the  least  conspicuous  of  the  small  number  of  those  who 
gave  him  courage  to  work  out  his  own  salvation  in  his 
own  way,  I  consistently  brought  him  the  tribute  of  my 
instinctive,  if  ignorant,  admiration. 

Upon  my  return  from  abroad  his  was  almost  the  first 
studio  that  I  visited,  and  I  was  delighted  beyond 
measure  to  find  that  my  memory  of  his  work  suffered 
no  shock,  but  that,  on  the  contrary,  my  admiration  had 
grown  with  my  better  understanding.  High  apprecia- 
tion for  his  work  was  felt  among  all  the  adherents  of 
the  new  Society  and,  though  no  man  was  less  fitted  by 
nature  for  executive  duty  of  any  kind,  he  bravely  did 
his  share  in  all  the  volunteer  service  that  our  new 
organization  demanded. 

His  pleasant  and  thoroughly  American  form  of  wit 
always  lent  gayety  to  these  occasions.  It  rose  superior 
to  his  life-long  struggle  with  chronic  impecuniosity, 
for,  though  this  condition  was  chiefly  due  to  the  total 
lack  of  commercial  value  placed  upon  his  work  at  that 
time,  poverty  seems  too  harsh  a  word  to  apply  to  his 
gallant  toleration  of  the  hardship  of  his  lot.  One 
typical  example  of  this  humour  dates  from  the  occasion 
of  my  first  visit  to  him  after  my  return.      I  told  him 


244      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

that  I  was  in  search  of  a  studio,  and  asked  if  he  knew 
of  one  vacant  in  the  Tenth  Street  hive,  where,  an 
intermittently  industrious  bee,  he  laboured.  None 
was  vacant,  it  appeared,  but  he  added  gravely,  though 
with  a  twinkle  of  his  eye:  "If  you're  not  in  too  great  a 
hurry,  I'd  wait  a  while;  it's  so  long  since  I've  paid  my 
rent  that  perhaps  you  might  get  this  one  of  mine." 

With  much  the  same  appearance  of  seriousness  I 
have  heard  him  dispatch  the  mystified  head-waiter  of 
a  club,  where  he  was  greatly  beloved,  to  present  his 
compliments  to  the  chef  and  inquire  if  the  kidneys 
with  which  he  had  been  served  were  "made  under 
the  Goodyear  patent."  Tradition  also  has  it  that  on 
one  occasion  while  visiting  Whistler,  during  the  days 
when  the  latter  lived  in  temporary  splendour,  he  all 
but  disconcerted  his  imperturbable  host,  who  was 
below  receiving  his  guests  for  a  formal  dinner,  by  a 
bland  inquiry  from  the  vantage  ground  of  an  upper 
story,  "Jimmy,  where  do  you  keep  the  scissors  you 
trim  your  cuffs  with  ?" 

This  cheerful  humour  had  no  trace  of  conscious  wit, 
though  it  could  be  used  to  repel  an  attack  with  great 
effectiveness,  as  when  on  one  occasion  Martin  had 
served  on  the  Hanging  Committee  of  one  of  our  early 
exhibitions,  and  had  consented  to  the  insistence  of  the 
other  members  that  two  of  his  own  pictures  should  be 
placed  in  good  positions  on  the  line,  though  in  no 
especial  prominence.  On  varnishing  day  he  was  ap- 
proached by  one  of  the  exhibitors-,  angry  that  one  of 
his  two  contributions  had  been  placed  on  the  second 
line.  "See  here,  Martin,"  exclaimed  the  grieved  one, 
"one  of  my  pictures  is  *  skied.'     Why  is  that?"     "Oh, 


EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES        245 


that's  all  right,  we  thought  it  should  be  there,"  ex- 
plained Martin.  "Oh,  you  did,  but  you  have  two  on 
the  line."  "Oh,  that's  all  right,  too,  we  thought  they 
both  should  be  there,"  repeated  Martin  with  an  accent 
of  finality  that  silenced  his  interlocutor. 

Repeated  instances  of  his  ready  wit  were  often 
quoted  during  his  life-time,  and  then  belied,  as  now 
these  citations  may  serve  to  falsify,  the  true  measure  of 
the  man,  who  always  in  his  work,  as  often  in  conversa- 
tion, showed  the  keenest  appreciation  of  the  finer 
shades  of  thought  and  feeling;  his  baffling  humour 
meanwhile  keeping  inviolate  the  secret  haunt  of  this 
deeper  sensibihty  free  from  the  intrusion  of  the  un- 
regenerate. 

Not  the  least  service  which  the  Society  was  privileged 
to  give  in  the  earlier  days  of  its  activity,  was  such 
honour  as  it  could  pay  to  artists  who,  like  Homer  Mar- 
tin, were  then  unrecognized  here  at  home;  whose  work 
appealed  to  the  judgment  of  its  members  as  fulfilling 
the  requirements  of  the  higher  standard  of  art  it  sought 
to  establish.  It  was  but  a  barren  honour  in  Martin's 
case,  for  it  was  to  be  many  years,  and  not  until 
darkness  had  clouded  the  eyes  that  had  seen  such 
visions  of  beauty,  before  a  ray  of  general  apprecia- 
tion tempered  the  gloom  in  which  his  life  went 
out. 

Since  then,  with  the  cruel  fortune  that  so  often  lingers 
until  too  late,  his  work  has  won  its  place,  and  to-day 
collectors  are  eager  to  possess  even  minor  examples  of 
his  art  at  prices,  any  one  of  which  might  have  meant  a 
year's  unhampered  production,  could  Homer  Martin 
have  come  to  his  own  in  his  working  day.     It  happens 


246      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

frequently  that  an  artist's  reputation  among  his  fellows 
has  no  effect  upon  the  market  value  of  his  production; 
but,  to  some  such  expression  of  regret  that  this  had 
occurred  in  Martin's  case,  made  to  one  of  our  collectors 
who  was  rejoicing  over  the  recent  acquisition  of  one 
of  his  works,  I  was  met  with  the  rejoinder:  "If  you 
and  other  painters  knew  that  Homer  Martin  was  a 
great  artist  twenty-five  years  ago,  why  didn't  you  get 
his  work  and  hold  it  for  the  rise?"  I  wish  that  I  could 
have  done  so — for  other  than  financial  reasons! 

For  another  artist,  quite  without  honour  in  his  own 
country  in  those  days,  the  Society  drew  upon  its  meagre 
funds  at  the  time  of  its  first  exhibition  in  1878,  to  dis- 
patch one  of  its  members  to  Baltimore  for  the  purpose 
of  procuring  a  picture  by  J.  McNeill  Whistler,  probably 
his  first  exhibited  work  in  this  country;  while  later,  in 
1882,  his  masterpiece,  the  Portrait  of  the  Artist's 
Mother,  now  in  the  Luxembourg  gallery  in  Paris,  was 
first  publicly  shown  in  New  York  in  the  Society  exhi- 
bition of  that  year.  George  Fuller,  A.  H.  Wyant,  R. 
Swain  Gifford,  Eastman  Johnson:  so  the  roll  of  honour 
goes,  of  men  who  lent  the  authority  of  their  presence 
and  their  work  to  the  effort  of  their  younger  brethren 
in  those  days,  and  who  have  departed,  leaving  names 
that  will  be  remembered  in  American  art.  Many  of 
the  younger  comrades  have  followed  after,  but,  fortu- 
nately, some  of  those  who  were  already  of  established 
reputation  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  are  still  here 
and  active  in  the  continuance  of  the  work  in  which 
they  were  associated  with  the  Society;  and  many  of 
the  "younger  men" — a  shade  less  young — are  left  to 
carry  on  the  joint  effort,  which,  foUovving  the  traditions 


EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES        247 

of  the    Society   under   the   auspices   of  the    National 
Academy  of  Design,  is  still  before  them. 

Memories  of  a  more  intimate  and  personal  character 
come  back  from  that  year  of  my  return,  and  surely  in  a 
chronicle  of  friendships  place  may  be  found  for  the  best 
friends  that  have  ever  fallen  to  the  lot  of  a  son.  Many 
of  us,  children  of  the  North  in  the  time  of  the  Civil  War, 
must  have  shared  in  the  experience  of  growing  under  a 
mother's  care,  sharing  her  every  thought,  and  intui- 
tively gaining  a  knov^ledge  of  her  character  as  a  firm 
foundation  for  their  reverting  affection;  w^hile  the 
father,  absent  in  the  South,  remained  a  comparative 
stranger  to  the  growing  consciousness  of  the  child,  or 
was  endowed  by  his  imagination  with  characteristics 
that  had  but  little  consonance  to  the  real  nature  of  his 
elder.  I  fancy  that  there  were  many  fathers  and 
children,  when  peace  finally  came  to  the  land,  who 
met  upon  the  footing  of  comparative  strangers.  This, 
at  least,  was  the  experience  of  the  narrator,  who 
crowded  into  a  few  short  years  after  his  return  from 
abroad  all  his  intimate  personal  relationship  with  his 
own  father;  who,  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  being 
then  beyond  the  age  of  active  military  service,  had 
nevertheless  found  employment  in  the  command  of  a 
civil  transport  chartered  to  the  government,  and  thus 
acted  what  part  he  could  in  our  great  national  drama. 
Following  the  war,  the  establishment  and  supervision 
of  our  governmental  inspection  of  steamers  was  con- 
fided to  his  care,  where  his  duties,  covering  a  wide 
area,  kept  him  away  from  home  much  of  the  time; 
until  my  own  departure  for  my  earlier  experience  in 
New  York,   followed   by   an   absence  of  five  years   in 


248       A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

Europe,  had  completed  the  chain  of  circumstances,  by 
which,  on  my  return,  I  was  to  gain  a  new  and  intimate 
friend  in  the  person  of  my  own  father.  With  my 
mother,  on  the  contrary,  memory  begins  and,  independ- 
ently of  the  deep  affection  of  a  child,  I  look  upon  her 
as  one  might  look  upon  a  figure  in  a  well-rounded  and 
complete  story,  so  sweet  and  strong  and  resourceful  was 
she  throughout  life,  not  only  to  her  family,  but  to  all 
with  whom  she  came  in  contact.  The  daughter  of 
Samuel  Steele,  one  of  a  race  of  school-teachers  who,  in 
the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century,  laid  the 
foundations  of  our  pubhc  school  system,  and  who, 
surviving  many  years,  died  the  dean  of  his  faculty; 
Elvira  Steele,  at  the  age  of  twelve,  was  given  entire 
charge  of  one  of  the  schools  under  her  father's  control. 
I  fancy  I  can  see  the  little  Elvira  in  the  winter  of 
1824,  serene  and  competent,  having  a  duty  to  perform 
and  never  questioning  the  decree  that  took  her  away 
from  the  pleasures  of  her  age,  traversing  the  distance 
of  four  miles  that  separates  Waterford  from  Lansing- 
burgh,  on  her  way  to  school.  In  the  country  contiguous 
to  Albany  we  still  had  "old-fashioned  winters"  when 
I  was  a  boy,  and  our  elders  then  commented  on  the 
lessening  of  the  severity  of  our  climate,  as  I  hear  other 
grizzled  pates  do  now.  Through  the  bleak  winter  the 
little  miss  of  my  story  walked  to  her  school  in  the 
morning  and  back  to  her  home  in  early  twilight,  be- 
tween snowbanks  that  on  either  side  rose  higher  than 
her  head.  Many  of  her  scholars  were  older  than  her- 
self, among  these  one  who  afterward  rose  high  in  the 
profession  of  the  law.  The  future  jurist  had  always, 
indeed,  a  place  apart  in  his  teacher's  memory,  for  to 


EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES        249 

him  was  confided  the  key  of  the  school  and  the  duty  of 
making  the  fire  in  the  morning  before  her  arrival. 
And  when  teacher  and  pupil,  many,  many  years  after, 
met  in  Washington,  they  exchanged  memories  of  the 
little  school  at  Waterford.  The  very  small  children 
had  for  their  service  a  large  flat  box  filled  with  sand,  in 
which  they  moulded  letters  cut  from  pieces  of  card- 
board, and  thus  learned  their  alphabet;  an  early  fore- 
runner of  our  modern  kindergarten  system  put  into 
practice  by  the  teacher's  inventive  father.  This  ser- 
vice she  continued,  there  and  at  other  schools,  until 
the  day  before  her  marriage  at  the  age  of  twenty-four. 
Samuel  Steele  had  meanwhile  taken  his  family  to 
Albany,  where  he  had  been  made  the  head  of  one  of 
the  newly  established  public  schools,  and  there,  at  the 
age  of  seventeen,  she  met  a  neighbour's  son,  Addison 
Low,  to  whom  she  was  betrothed  for  the  Scriptural 
period  of  seven  years  for  which  Jacob  served  for 
Rachel.  There  are  still  in  the  possession  of  our  family 
two  old-fashioned  stipple  engravings  of  the  coworkers 
of  the ''Spectator" — Addison  and  Steele — by  which  the 
shy  boy  of  twenty  first  sought,  by  their  presentation 
to  the  young  school-mistress,  suggestively  to  urge  his 
suit. 

The  young  man's  history  up  to  that  time  had  been 
typical  of  his  time.  His  father,  coming  from  Vermont 
to  Albany  with  a  young  family,  had  embarked  an  in- 
sufficient capital  in  a  foundry,  which  incidentally  fur- 
nished some  of  the  cast-iron  cannon  balls  with  which 
our  young  Republic  resisted  invasion,  and  manufactured 
Franklin  stoves,  that,  when  they  can  be  found  by  curio 
hunters,     bearing    the    mark    "Francis    Fow,     Eagle 


250      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

Foundry,  Albany,  N.  Y.,"  I  can  commend  for  their 
simple  and  handsome  design.  The  son,  Addison,  had 
from  his  earhest  years  shown  inventive  faculty  and 
intense  interest  in  the  steam  engine,  but  with  the  old- 
time  respect  for  an  elder's  judgment,  he  had  put  aside 
his  natural  tastes  and,  submissively  enough,  was  ap- 
prenticed to  a  cabinet-maker.  Upon  his  twenty-first 
birthday,  however,  he  respectfully  announced  to  his 
father  that,  having  attained  his  majority,  he  proposed 
to  change  his  trade.  In  this,  from  the  logic  of  his  posi- 
tion as  it  was  then  understood,  he  was  not  opposed; 
and,  pausing  only  to  put  his  newly  acquired  skill  into 
practice  by  making  for  his  mother  a  mahogany  table, 
massive  and  of  good  proportion,  with  heavily  carved  feet 
that  is  still  a  treasured  family  possession,  and  in  which, 
for  obvious  reasons,  I  am  pleased  to  find  genuine 
artistic  taste  and  skilful  workmanship,  he  entered  into 
a  new  apprenticeship  in  a  machine-shop.  Here,  from 
the  lowest  to  the  highest  grade,  his  progress  was  rapid, 
and  he  became,  as  the  construction  of  many  efficient 
and  important  stationary  engines,  notably  those  of  the 
U.  S.  government  printing  offices  in  Washington  at 
the  time  of  their  establishment  proved,  an  extremely 
capable  constructing  engineer.  The  married  life  of 
my  parents  was  conspicuously  happy,  though  I  imagine 
that  few  families  have  seen  greater  fluctuation  of  for- 
tune or  were  more  tried  by  intimate  sorrow.  Of  ten 
children  born  to  them,  four  only  survived  their  child- 
hood, and  much  of  the  knowledge  which  the  husband 
had  mastered  was  of  small  avail,  as  it  was  evidently 
accompanied  by  a  total  lack  of  business  capacity.  The 
traditions  which  his  descendants  have  retained  of  the 


EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES        251 

construction  works  which  he  established  seem  to  point 
to  a  golden  age  of  labour,  and,  though  many  years  had 
elapsed  since  the  discontinuance  of  this  branch  of  his 
activity,  the  younger  generation  saw  gathered  around 
his  coffin  a  group  of  hard-handed  old  men,  unknown  to 
any  of  us,  who  upon  inquiry  proved  to  be  former  work- 
men, a  remnant  of  the  old  "machine-shop,"  come  to 
pay  a  last  honour  to  "the  best  boss  we  ever  had." 

Through  the  rise  and  fall,  or  rather — it  is  more 
exactly  descriptive— the  uneven  course  of  family  for- 
tune, the  wife  and  mother  kept  her  way,  serene  and 
competent,  making  the  most  of  little,  and  finding  some- 
thing to  spare  in  charity  for  those  less  fortunate;  the 
father  cheered  and  supported  by  her  unfailing  fortitude 
in  the  fits  of  depression  which  alternated  with  hope, 
not  infrequently  born  of  some  phase  of  his  inventive 
talent.  Of  these  inventions,  it  may  be  said  in  passing, 
two  came  into  quite  general  use;  but  as  they  were 
devices  born  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  the  neces- 
sities of  some  special  construction,  they  were  not  cov- 
ered by  any  of  the  many  patents  which  he  obtained. 
It  was  later  in  life  that  the  varied  and  thorough  knowl- 
edge that  my  father  possessed  became  available,  through 
the  larger  necessities  of  our  growing  country,  and  sup- 
plemented by  the  practical  experience  in  navigation 
gained  during  the  Civil  War,  fitted  him  for  the  office 
of  Supervising  Inspector  of  Steam  Vessels,  which  he 
occupied  for  many  years.  This  also  brought,  in  the 
performance  of  official  duty,  opportunities  for  many 
voyages  along  our  eastern  coast,  in  which  the  wife 
accompanied  her  husband;  and  it  was  a  pleasant  sight 
to  see  these  elderly  lovers  planning  for  or  departing  on 


252      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

one  of  these  "wedding  journeys,"  as  our  affection 
styled  them. 

It  was  to  this  home  that  I  returned,  and  here,  as 
much  as  possible,  with  absences  necessitated  by  my 
work  and  that  of  our  newly  founded  Society,  I  passed 
my  first  winter. 

And  here  I  came  to  know  a  very  different  man  from 
the  father  I  had  imagined.  He  of  the  firmly  drawn 
mouth,  habitually  sad  in  expression,  with  clear  blue  eyes, 
often  turned  introspectively  as  he  pondered  some  prob- 
lem of  mechanics;  of  the  few  words,  and  those  not  un- 
commonly, in  the  troubled  state  of  our  poHtics,  fiercely 
denunciatory  of  those  he  esteemed  the  enemies  of  our 
country,  this  imaginary  stern  Puritan — typical  founder 
of  our  liberty  and  upholder  of  our  intolerance — gave 
place  to  another  and  truer  character  of  man. 

In  his  eyes,  still  as  blue  as  those  of  a  child,  though 
he  was  in  his  seventieth  year,  I  read  a  welcome  to  the 
wanderer;  in  his  interest  in  my  past  and  in  his  hope  for 
my  future  I  felt  the  sympathy  of  one  whose  life  had 
made  a  deliberate  choice,  of  a  problematical  success  in 
the  face  of  possible  failure,  rather  than  to  follow  in  the 
path  traced  for  him  by  others;  and,  in  the  happier  days 
that  had  come  to  our  land,  I  found  his  opinions,  less 
vehemently  expressed,  more  filled  with  charity  for  all 
mankind. 

Perhaps  also  in  reverting  to  the  past  I  could  better 
understand  and  forgive  the  many  tiresome  hours  when, 
as  a  child  standing  on  wearied  feet  in  front  of  great 
engines,  I  listened  to  the  incomprehensible  jargon  of 
technical  talk  between  my  father  and  some  engineer — 
grimy,   detestable   persons   all,   they   seemed   to   me — 


Portrait  sketch  of  my  lather,  AdcHson  Low,  in  hi 
seventy-third  year,  painted  April,  1883 


EXPERIENCES  AND  MEMORIES        253 

when  I  reflected  that  in  my  turn  I  might  willingly  have 
inflicted  the  same  leg-wearisome  experience,  technical 
jargon  and  all,  upon  him  in  some  picture  gallery,  if 
the  positions  had  been  reversed. 

Thus  my  emotional,  imaginative,  and  charitable 
father  and  I  became  staunch  comrades,  and  so  we  con- 
tinued to  the  end.  No  such  correction  of  my  wilful 
and  perverted  understanding  was  necessary  in  my 
mother's  case.  I  found  her,  as  I  had  always  known 
her,  placid  and  philosophical,  viewing  life  with  sus- 
tained interest  and  humour;  bearing  the  discomforts 
incident  to  old  age,  fortunately  slight  in  her  case,  with 
equanimity  and  consistent  depreciation;  and  as  capable 
and  competent  in  her  household  as  in  her  earlier  day. 
There  was  nothing  that  was  pedagogic  or  oracular  in 
her  nature,  but  she  had  from  much  reading  throughout 
life  kept  well  abreast  of  her  time,  and  her  conversation 
was  both  wise  and  witty.  One  touching  instance  of 
the  solicitude  with  which  my  absence  had  been  fol- 
lowed, was  not  only  shown  by  a  fairly  complete  knowl- 
edge of  the  chief  events  that  had  occurred  in  France 
during  those  years,  but  by  a  familiarity  with  the  topog- 
raphy of  Paris  which  she  had  gained  through  maps  and 
guide  books;  so  that,  in  my  tales  of  a  city  which  she 
never  saw,  I  was  often  surprised  at  her  acquaintance 
with  localities  I  described. 

It  is  something  more  than  the  pride  and  natural 
affection  of  a  son  that  has  made  me  include  these 
family  portraits  in  this  collection  of  pictured  memories. 
I  would  be  the  last  to  deny  an  implicit  faith  in  the 
general  progression  of  the  world  and  the  gradual  eleva- 
tion of  the  human  type;    but,  in  the  past  generations 


254      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

that  our  country  has  known,  each  period  has  seen 
certain  virtues  blossom  and  become  fruitful  in  the  gar- 
den of  their  time  and  place;  and  as  typical  of  those  who, 
in  an  earher  environment,  Uved  a  life  of  dignity  and 
usefulness,  I  have  tried  to  fix  the  fleeting  images  of 
this  man  and  woman. 

One  word  more  of  the  mother,  an  oft-repeated  con- 
fession of  faith  that  all  who  approached  her  had  heard 
her  profess  throughout  life,  but  which  came  with  more 
finality  and  significance,  and  the  authority  of  her  three- 
score years  and  ten;  once  at  the  conclusion  of  a  long 
talk  in  which  she  had  revived  many  memories  cheerful 
and  sad,  of  both  of  which  her  life  experience  was  filled. 

"So  far  as  I  can  see,"  she  said  in  substance,  "nothing 
has  happened  in  my  life  that  has  not  been  for  the  best. 
I  would  be  willing  to  live  my  life  over  under  exactly 
the  same  conditions;  and  though,  if  I  could  look  into 
the  future,  I  should  dread  the  coming  of  the  sorrows 
that  I  have  known,  as  I  have  at  the  time  of  their  occur- 
rence, revolted,  and  questioned  the  load  laid  upon  me, 
yet  I  would  believe,  as  I  know  now,  that  the  measure  of 
joy  and  sorrow  is  exactly  proportioned  to  our  capacity 
to  sufi'er  or  enjoy,  that  together  they  make  up  life,  and 
life  is  good." 


XXI 

PROPHECY  CONFIRMED 

SEATED  in  the  arbour  at  Montigny,  I  had  made, 
from  mere  flux  of  words,  certain  prophecies  of 
the  future  of  mural  painting  in  this  country, 
which  were  twice  confirmed  within  a  year.  In  Paris 
Saint-Gaudens  had  described  the  work  in  Trinity 
Church  in  Boston  and  St.  Thomas's  in  New  York — 
first  works  of  one  whose  hand  has  never  since  been 
idle  and  who,  as  the  dean  of  our  profession,  all  mural- 
painters  delight  to  honour — and  I  was  scarce  ashore 
from  the  home-coming  steamer  before  I  learned  that 
in  my  native  city  William  Morris  Hunt  was  at  work 
upon  two  large  decorations  in  the  Assembly  Chamber 
of  our  huge,  costly  and  ill-inspired  State  Capitol. 

Of  Hunt  I  had  heard  much  in  my  sojourn  at  Bar- 
bizon.  His  name  was  a  household  word  in  the  Millet 
family,  where  his  talent  was  esteemed,  and  where  his 
service  to  the  master,  in  proclaiming  the  merit  of  his 
work,  when  there  were  few  who  would  listen,  and  fewer 
still  to  join  in  his  generous  propaganda  of  Millet's 
fame,  was  keenly  remembered.  There  are  many  to- 
day, above  all  in  his  home-city  of  Boston,  who  can 
thank  Hunt  for  a  long  possession  of  beautiful  works  by 
Millet,  to  say  nothing  of  the  accrued  value  of  pictures 
which  they  originally  procured  for  a  song.  The 
"Angelus,"  of  the  spectacular  price,  was  originally 
painted  for  a  Bostonian,  a  friend  of  Hunt's,  who  was 

255 


256      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

unconcernedly  absent  on  a  yachting  trip  when  the 
painter,  having  finished  his  work  and  in  desperate  need 
of  the  money  due  him,  was  obliged  to  let  another  have 
the  picture  for  the  price  agreed  upon,  about  eight 
hundred  dollars,  a  notable  contrast  to  the  two  hundred 
thousand  dollars  for  which  the  "Angelus"  sold  at  the 
Hotel  Drouot  after  a  lapse  of  twenty  years. 

Babcock  had  also  a  fund  of  memories  of  his  whilom 
comrade  and,  with  something  of  the  wonder  of  a 
recluse,  described  Hunt's  life  in  France.  More  favoured 
by  fortune  than  most  of  the  painters  of  his  time,  it 
suited  his  extravagant  humour  to  drive  down  from 
Paris  to  Barbizon  behind  a  spanking  team  in  a  modish 
cart  piled  high  with  canvases  and  painter's  parapher- 
nalia, entering  the  village  at  a  smart  trot  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  all  its  inhabitants,  unused  to  anything  more 
rapid  than  the  patient  donkey.  I  remember  also  that 
when  I  took  Hunt's  book,  "Talks  on  Art,"  which  had 
been  compiled  by  one  of  his  women-pupils  and  was 
published  about  that  time,  to  Babcock,  that  he  read  it, 
and  then  returned  it  with  the  comment:  "That  sounds 
like  Hunt's  ideas,  but  it  is  Hunt's  talk  with  all  the 
pepper  and  salt  left  out." 

The  liberal  seasoning  of  his  conversation  with  words 
which,  in  polite  literature,  are  habitually  represented 
by  dashes,  was  possibly  a  family  tradition;  for  many 
of  us  remember  the  astonishingly  virile  and  picturesque 
talk  of  his  brother,  the  late  eminent  architect,  Richard 
Morris  Hunt,  as  having  the  same  punctuation.  And, 
with  William  Morris  Hunt  I  was  to  have  an  example 
of  this  prodigal  vocabulary,  in  the  course  of  an  after- 
noon's talk  during  a  meeting  which  was  so  strangely 


PROPHECY  CONFIRMED  257 

impressive,  that  it  rises  in  my  memory  as  clear  cut  in 
its  slightest  detail  as  though  it  had  occurred  yester- 
day. 

I  knew  and  admired  many  of  Hunt's  pictures  and 
was  familiar  with  his  career  as  a  pupil  of  Couture, 
through  his  later  association  with  Millet,  and  his 
beneficial  activity  as  a  teacher  and  artist  in  Boston; 
and  when,  soon  after  my  arrival  in  Albany,  a  young 
architect  who  knew  him  oflFered  to  take  me  to  see  his 
work  in  the  Assembly  Chamber  of  the  Capitol,  I 
eagerly  welcomed  the  opportunity  to  meet  him. 

The  decorations  on  which  he  was  engaged  were 
painted  directly  upon  the  sandstone  which  lined  the 
walls  of  the  Assembly  Chamber,  high  under  the  groined 
ceiling;  their  surface  reaching  down  to  the  tops  of  a 
row  of  five  or  six  windows  which,  on  either  side,  Ht  the 
room.  Wide  platforms  for  the  painters'  use  had  been 
built  over  these  windows  at  the  base  of  the  surfaces  to 
be  painted,  which  screened  the  light  by  which  they 
were  eventually  to  be  seen,  and  necessitated  the  use  of 
artificial  light  during  the  course  of  their  execution. 
The  position  of  these  platforms  lifted  them  high  above 
the  floor  of  the  Assembly  Chamber,  and  crossing  the 
gulf  between,  from  one  platform  to  the  other,  ran  a 
narrow  bridge.  A  fairly  practicable  stairway  had  been 
built  by  which  to  reach  the  level  of  the  platforms,  and 
up  this  my  architect  friend  and  I  climbed  one  winter 
afternoon. 

Arriving  at  the  upper  level,  we  found  ourselves 
enveloped  in  twilight,  with  the  great  painting  on  the 
wall  hardly  distinguishable,  as  no  lights  were  lit. 
There  was  already  a  party  of  three  or  four  persons, 


258       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

two  of  them  ladies,  wandering  over  the  surface  of  the 
platform,  peering  into  the  shadow  in  an  endeavour  to 
see  Hunt's  work.  But  our  attention  was  at  once  fixed 
upon  the  figure  of  the  painter.  He  was  very  tall,  ap- 
parently over  six  feet  in  height,  with  a  profuse  beard 
falling  over  his  chest.  He  wore  a  skull-cap  on  his 
head,  and  carried  on  one  arm  a  zither,  on  which  he 
struck  a  few  disconnected  notes  from  time  to  time,  as 
he  marched  to  and  fro  over  the  bridge  connecting  the 
two  platforms,  as  apparently  unconscious  of  the  pres- 
ence of  his  other  visitors  or  ourselves  as  though  we 
were  astral  bodies,  instead  of  human  beings  who  had 
climbed  many  steps  in  our  desire  to  bring  him  a  willing 
admiration  for  his  work.  As  he  approached  the  end 
of  the  bridge,  near  where  we  stood,  in  the  course  of  his 
perambulation,  my  friend  greeted  him,  and  presented 
me  as  a  young  painter  interested  in  decoration.  "Well, 
look  around,"  he  said  as,  turning  his  back,  heresumed 
his  pacing,  like  a  captive  lion  in  his  cage. 

It  was  easier  said  than  done.  There  were  figures 
vast  and  shadowy  on  the  wall  before  us,  and  the  general 
silhouette  of  the  composition  could  be  made  out,  but 
that  was  about  all.  The  other  visitors  were  even  more 
puzzled  than  we  were  by  the  strange  situation  and,  as 
the  painter  again  approached  the  platform  where  we 
were,  they  went  to  him,  thanked  him  for  the  privilege 
of  seeing  his  work,  to  which  he  hardly  made  audible 
response,  and  started  down  the  stairway.  We  allowed 
them  to  depart  and  then,  when  Hunt  had  again  crossed 
the  bridge,  which  all  this  while  he  had  paced  with  a 
nervous,  hurried  step,  we  in  turn  approached.  I  was 
disconcerted  and  nettled  at  a  reception  which  might, 


PROPHECY  CONFIRMED  259 

I  felt,  have  been  so  different.  We  had  waited  until 
near  the  close  of  the  day  so  that  we  might  not  interrupt 
his  work,  and  my  interest  was  so  genuine  and  so  legiti- 
mate, in  comparison  with  that  inspired  by  mere  curios- 
ity— for  the  sins  of  this  last  variety  of  visitor  we  were 
probably  suffering — that  I  felt  myself  hardly  used. 
After  I  had  said  a  few  civil  and  conventional  words, 
and  we  had  mutually  turned  our  backs  on  each  other — 
Hunt  scarce  waiting  the  time  that  the  most  elementary 
politeness  demanded — a  revulsion  of  feeling  came  over 
me  and  turning,  I  fairly  shouted  after  him: 

"  Before  I  go  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  a  few  months 
ago  I  was  in  Barbizon,  where  I  knew  the  Millets  and 
Babcock."  At  the  sound  of  these  three  magic  words 
he  instantly  turned  with:  "Wait,  my  God,  what  did 
you  say .?  Millet,  Barbizon.  You  know  Billy  Bab- 
cock; why  didn't  you  say  so  at  once.?  Here,  wait!" 
and,  coming  off  the  bridge,  he  called  to  an  assistant, 
who  had  remained  motionless  in  a  corner  somewhere 
during  this  scene,  and  ordered  him  to  "light  up."  "All 
the  lights  on  both  platforms;  we  want  to  see  these 
things,"  he  commanded.  Then,  his  manner  entirely 
changed,  though  a  strange  intensity  of  excitement 
never  left  him,  he  said  cordially:  "Bless  me,  but  I'm 
glad  to  see  some  one  from  Barbizon!  Here,  sit  down, 
have  a  cigar,  and  tell  me  all  about  the  old  place  and 
the  Millets  and  Babcock — Billy  Babcock,  damn  him, 
how  is  he  .f"'  Questions  and  answers  alternated,  and 
my  budget  of  news  was  so  often  interrupted  in  its  dis- 
closure, by  interjected  memories  recalled  to  the  painter 
by  familiar  names  and  places,  that  an  hour  passed 
quickly. 


260      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

Meanwhile  great  flaring  gas  torches  Ht  up  the  two 
platforms  and  the  vault  of  the  ceiling  above,  while 
below,  in  the  gloom,  all  the  workmen  upon  the  floor 
having  left  as  the  quitting-time  had  come,  the  empti- 
ness of  the  great  void  lent  a  sensation  of  strangeness 
to  the  scene.  My  architect  friend  had  been  called 
away,  and  we  two  sat  alone  until  Hunt's  curiosity  and 
my  information  were  alike  exhausted.  "Now  I  want 
you  to  see  my  work  and,  mind  you,  don't  be  afraid  of 
saying  just  what  you  think  about  it." 

Neither  panel  was  completed,  he  told  me,  though 
their  effect  was  but  little  changed  when  I  saw  them 
some  months  after  from  the  floor,  after  the  scaffolding 
had  been  removed.  They  were  very  noble  works. 
From  a  motive  which  can  be  easily  understood  I  did 
not  that  afternoon  touch  upon  a  feeling  that  I  had, 
that,  called  upon  late  in  life  to  execute  works  upon  a 
scale  which  was  unfamiliar  to  him,  Hunt  had  reverted 
in  these  works  to  his  earlier  school  practices  and  the 
lessons  of  his  master  Couture. 

Any  one  who  in  the  Louvre  to-day  looks  upon  the 
*' Decadence  Romainey"  the  chief  work  of  Thomas  Cou- 
ture, must  feel  that  the  chorus  of  approval  which  re- 
warded the  painter  when  the  picture  made  its  first 
appearance  in  the  Salon  of  1848  was  ill  judged.  His 
after  history  suffices  to  prove  this;  and  the  belief  that 
was  then  general,  that  a  second  Veronese  was  born  to 
France,  is  no  longer  held.  Works  of  smaller  scope  are 
numerous  enough  to  prove  that  Couture,  within  this 
limitation,  was  a  great,  if  incomplete,  painter;  but  he 
as  evidently  was  one  of  those  who  owe  more  to  the 
museums   and   to  the  great   painters  that  have   lived 


Flight  of  Night  and  the  Discoverer 
From  the  decorations  by  William  Morris  Hunt,  in  the  Capitol  at  Albany 


PROPHECY  CONFIRMED  261 


before  him,  than  he  owes  to  his  individual  view  of 
nature.  His  teaching,  once  so  popular,  was  chiefly 
based  upon  a  number  of  technical  recipes  that  took 
little  account  of  the  infinite  variety  of  nature  in  her 
types,  in  her  ever-changing  colour  and  her  strongly 
individualized  form.  Hunt,  in  his  smaller  works,  had 
long  discarded  the  influences  of  his  earlier  training, 
and  though  Millet,  in  many  of  his  figures,  and  Corot, 
in  most  of  his  landscapes,  can  be  felt  as  a  partial  im- 
pulsion, his  own  individual  temperament  as  a  painter 
is  sufficiently  strong  to  overweigh  any  other  influence 
but  that  of  nature  translated  by  the  hand  of  a  strong 
and  capable  painter. 

In  these  two  works  of  large  scope  it  was  but  natural 
that  the  painter,  long  divorced  from  any  hope  that  he 
should  ever  be  called  upon  to  do  work  of  this  character, 
should  be  taken  by  surprise;  and  that,  in  the  perplexity 
of  the  problem,  he  should  fall  back  upon  these  dis- 
carded principles  as  the  solution  nearest  at  hand. 

With  this  reservation,  however,  there  was  enough 
and  to  spare  for  admiration  of  these  two  noble  works. 
They  are  absolutely  lost  to  the  world  now,  hidden 
behind  a  false  ceiling  that  was  built  in  order  that  our 
noble  legislators  might  listen  to  the  sound  of  their  own 
eloquence;  the  acoustic  properties  of  the  Assembly 
Chamber  demanding  this  sacrifice  of  the  proportions 
of  the  room,  and  thereby  hiding  these  two  panels. 
Even  before  this  drastic  change  was  made,  however, 
the  panels  had  suflTered  from  the  changing  of  their 
colours  for,  against  all  precedent  and  deaf  to  all  advice, 
the  painter  had  executed  his  work  directly  upon  the 
sandstone  wall;    and  the  climatic  alternations  of  heat 


262      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

and  cold  upon  this  absorbent  stone  had  all  but  wrought 
their  ruin  before  they  were  hidden  from  sight. 

That  afternoon  between  these  panels,  fresh  from  his 
hand,  I  walked  with  the  painter,  viewing  the  work 
from  varying  distances,  listening  to  his  explanation  of 
their  subjects  and  his  methods  of  execution  and  voicing 
my  sincere  admiration,  in  which  was  mingled  a  note 
of  joy  on  finding  in  my  own  land,  in  my  own  native 
city,  done  by  my  own  countryman,  works  of  such 
scope.  High  upon  the  slender  bridge  that  day  I 
seemed  to  look  over  a  great  stretch  of  country,  dotted 
with  fair  monuments  and,  in  each  of  these,  a  busy 
horde  of  artists  working  gladly  in  the  service  of  their 
native  land;  and  not  the  least  curious  part  of  this 
dream  of  youth  is  that  part  of  it,  at  all  events,  has 
come  true! 

At  last  we  stood  together,  about  midway  on  this 
bridge,  below  us  the  dark  space  of  the  empty  chamber, 
the  torches  flaming  on  either  side  illuminating  the  great 
solemn  paintings,  and  at  my  side  the  tall  form  of  the 
painter,  his  expressive  face,  brilliant-eyed,  bent  toward 
me. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  the  painters  will  say  to 
these?"  he  inquired,  waving  his  hand  in  the  direction 
of  his  work.  "What  can  they  say  but  admire  them," 
I  answered;  "every  painter  in  the  country  must  be 
glad  to  see  such  work  undertaken,  and  you  have  not 
only  more  than  won  the  right  to  be  chosen  for  the  work, 
but  how  many  of  our  men  are  there  who  would  dare 
undertake  it  V 

"  I  think  I  know  one  or  two  who  would  have  liked  to 
try  it,"  grimly  laughed  the  painter  in  return,  "but  on 


PROPHECY  CONFIRMED  2C3 

the  whole,  painters  are  pretty  good  fellows,  and  I  don't 
fear  their  verdict  so  much.  But,"  and  here  his  voice 
fell,  and  he  enunciated  each  word  slowly,  "What — do 
— you — think — the — public — will — say  ? " 

Here  I  had  no  answer  ready,  for  I  explained  that  I 
was  so  newly  home  that  I  still  felt  the  motion  of  the 
steamer;  that  I  had  been  long  away;  that — in  a  word — 
I  knew  no  more  of  the  possible  public  feeling  than  a 
babe  unborn. 

The  painter's  voice  rose  in  pitch  and,  with  a  gesture 
of  his  clenched  fist,  defying  the  vault  above  us,  which 
echoed  back  his  defiance,  incidentally  calling  upon  his 
Creator  to  witness  his  words,  he  declared  that  he 
cared  nothing  for  the  verdict  of  the  people.  Then, 
grasping  me  by  the  arm,  approaching  nearer,  in  a 
strident  undertone  he  fairly  hissed  in  my  ear:  "Yes, 
I  do,  you  know  damned  well  I  do.  Young  man,  we 
cant  get  along  without  them!^' 

Here  this  strange  interview  ended,  and  though  we 
parted  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway  most  cordially.  Hunt 
bidding  me  to  climb  his  stair  at  any  time  that  I  felt 
inclined,  and  again  expressing  his  pleasure  in  the  news 
that  I  had  brought  of  his  friends  across  the  water,  I 
never  availed  myself  of  his  permission. 

In  a  few  months  the  scaffolding  came  down,  the 
works  were  visible  to  all;  but  the  people,  whose  ver- 
dict he  could  not  do  without,  were  for  the  most  part 
non-committal.  Some  were  facetious;  it  is  hard  to 
curb  our  irreverence  apparently;  a  few  were  pedantic- 
ally critical,  demanding  the  effulgence  of  noonday  in- 
stead of  welcoming  the  dawn  of  new  art;  but  of  real 
public    interest    there    was    none    for    this    decoration, 


264      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

which,  whatever  its  shortcomings,  represented  the 
crowning  work  of  a  painter  who  deserved  more  recog- 
nition of  his  achievement  than  his  indifferent  fellow- 
countrymen  ever  accorded  to  him. 

I  never  saw  William  Morris  Hunt  again.  In  the 
following  year  he  died;  but  I  am  not  likely  to  ever 
forget  the  few  hours  I  passed,  high  in  air,  in  his  im- 
pressive presence,  listening  to  his  conversation,  filled 
with  enthusiasm  and  wise  with  the  knowledge  of  his 
craft,  though  larded  with  strange  oaths.  Of  these  last 
I  have  spared  my  reader  to  some  extent,  but  I  thought 
of  that  scene  when,  years  after,  Stevenson  described 
to  me  the  first  draft  of  the  play  of  "Deacon  Brodie," 
which  he  and  Henley  wrote,  as  "being  at  least  remark- 
able from  the  recurrence  of  the  name  of  the  Deity 
taken  in  vain,  more  times  than  in  any  other  example 
of  the  British  drama." 

In  the  case  of  the  painter  he  was  probably  quite 
unconscious,  in  the  thrall  of  a  fixed  habit,  of  his  super- 
fluity of  emphasis,  which  indeed  he  may  have  found 
useful,  in  his  long  career  as  a  missionary  of  art,  in 
Boston,  as  a  means  of  fixing  the  attention  of  those  with 
whom  a  more  suave  address  would  have  failed  to  pierce 
the  armour  of  indifference.  A  great  and  lonely  figure, 
despite  the  local  popularity  which  through  social  posi- 
tion and  forceful  personality  his  city  lent  him  for  a 
time,  Hunt  shov/s,  as  do  other  instances,  that  of  Wash- 
ington Allston  notably,  that  our  general  diffusion  of 
intelligence,  our  scheme  of  civilization  through  educa- 
tion and  the  printed  book  is  but  partial,  and  leaves  the 
sister  force  of  art,  which  older  civilizations  have  fostered 
on  an  equality  with  literature,  out  of  consideration. 


XXII 
A  NANTUCKET  INTERLUDE 

WITH  the  briefest  possible  mention  the  ex- 
periences of  the  next  few  years  may  be  passed 
over,  for  my  activities  during  this  time  have 
but  Httle  general  interest.  I  met  with  the  difficulties 
that  are  usual  to  the  young  artist  in  gaining  a  foothold 
in  the  land  of  his  nativity;  in  the  course  of  which, 
listening  to  the  advice  of  others,  I  exiled  myself  from 
New  York  and,  in  the  pursuit  of  an  evasive  American- 
ism, passed  the  best  part  of  two  summers  in  painting 
out  of  doors  a  large  picture  representing  a  local  tradi- 
tional event,  for  which,  when  finished,  no  one,  including 
to  some  degree  the  painter,  cared.  I  gained,  however, 
a  pleasant  memory  of  eighteen  months,  including  the 
whole  of  one  winter,  passed  on  the  Island  of  Nantucket; 
a  witness  of  a  late  survival  of  the  antique  virtues  of  the 
fathers  and  a  recipient  of  more  kindness  from  its  people 
— shown  to  a  half-foreign  artist  and  his  wholly  foreign 
wife — than  can  be  enregistered  here.  Less  cheering, 
perhaps,  are  the  memories  of  the  total  isolation  in  which 
a  self-exiled  artist  must  live  in  a  New  England  village; 
his  lack  of  kindly  intercourse  with  those  who  speak  the 
language  of  art;  the  absence  of  helpful  criticism  from 
the  man  at  your  elbow,  and  the  resultant  indecision 
and  morbid  doubt  that  paralyzes  work  done  under 
such  conditions.  John  Trumbull's  father  is  said  to 
have  warned  his  son,  when  the  latter  announced  his 

205 


266      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

intention  to  study  art,  that  "Boston  was  not  Athens." 
From  putting  into  practice  a  theory  that  to  be  of  one's 
time,  to  express  a  native  sentiment  in  art,  one  should 
Hve  in  a  characteristic  native  town  in  close  touch  with 
its  life,  another  young  American  artist,  many  years 
after,  learned  after  a  winter  on  the  island,  that — though 
its  climate  was  better,  its  manners  and  morals  superior, 
and  its  people  kind  beyond  comparison — nevertheless, 
Nantucket  was  not  Barbizon. 

It  would  be  unjust,  however,  not  to  note  one  happy 
exception  to  this  rule  of  isolation  that  a  portion  of  my 
sojourn  on  Nantucket  knew. 

I  had  met  Eastman  Johnson  in  the  meetings  of  the 
S.  A.  A.,  and  perhaps  the  knowledge  of  the  admirable 
work  that  he  had  done  at  Nantucket,  in  his  case  a  true 
expression  of  his  temperament,  was  not  without  its 
influence  in  the  choice  of  a  testing-ground  for  my 
theory — or  rather  the  theory  of  others  to  which  I  had 
lent  a  consenting  ear.  He  had  a  handsome  summer 
home  upon  the  sand  dunes  fronting  the  water,  that  are 
dignified  as  the  Cliffs  in  Nantucket  parlance,  and  the 
ancient  landmark,  in  the  shape  of  a  hip-roofed  cottage 
that  I  leased  for  our  occupancy,  was  not  far  away. 
The  bluff,  hearty  welcome  accorded  to  the  newcomer 
by  the  successful  painter,  whose  pictures  had  long  been 
accepted  by  our  artists  and  our  people,  and  whose 
portraits,  if  gathered  together,  would  in  themselves 
constitute  a  gallery  of  noted  Americans,  was  character- 
istic of  the  man,  who,  lately  gone  from  us,  departed 
leaving  none  but  friends.  Robust,  kindly  petulant  in 
manner,  florid  of  complexion,  sturdy  of  figure,  not  so 
far  removed  in  type,  though  he  was  thoroughly  a  man 


A  NANTUCKET  INTERLUDE     267 

of  the  world,  from  some  of  the  retired  captains  that  he 
painted  so  well  in  his  "Nantucket  School  of  Philosophy," 
Eastman  Johnson  mingled  with  his  neighbours  on 
terms  that  explain  in  his  work  the  easy  seizure  of  char- 
acter, the  complete  fidelity  of  type,  the  essential  quality 
of  sympathetic  representation  rendered.  Technically, 
this  was  achieved  with  a  knowledge  of  his  craft  that 
pleased  the  public  and  satisfied  the  more  critical 
requirements  of  his  fellow-artists.  He  was  a  well- 
trained  artist,  above  all  a  painter  in  oil;  one  of  the  few 
of  his  time,  among  our  painters,  conversant  with  the 
qualities  which  differentiate  that  medium — which  all 
use  and  so  few  know  as  the  painters  of  the  past  were 
trained  to  know — from  other  media  of  pictorial  ex- 
pression. He  was  fond  of  rich  colour,  with  which  to 
his  eye  all  objects  were  invested,  and  in  this  he  was  a 
direct  descendant  from  the  painters  of  Holland,  in 
whose  schools  and  galleries  he  had  learned  these  secrets. 
Joined  to  his  quality  of  unctuous  colour,  he  had  an 
accurate  grasp  of  form,  which  served  him  well  in  the 
portraits,  which  were  his  principal  works  during  the 
last  decades  of  his  practice.  In  the  compositions  of 
American  rural  life  by  which,  with  his  portraits,  he 
will  be  best  remembered,  this  accuracy  of  representa- 
tion gives  an  added  value  to  the  many  vanished  types 
of  our  earlier  life;  and  the  future  place  of  Eastman 
Johnson  in  our  art  is  assured  by  a  long  series  of  masterly 
works. 

The  long  evenings  of  the  autumn  and  the  early  win- 
ter, for  he  lingered  late  upon  the  island,  remain 
memorable;  for  Eastman  Johnson  had  a  store  of  anec- 
dote which  pictured  his  earlier  days  as  an  art  student 


268      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

in  Germany,  Belgium,  and  Holland;  and  his  later 
experiences  of  men  and  conditions  in  Washington  and 
New  York — the  last  as  strange  and  interesting  to  his 
listener  as  the  stories  of  his  student  life  were  familiar 
in  essence,  though  different  in  detail.  An  ideal  host  in 
his  pleasant  home,  we  had  merry  gatherings  around  the 
dinner  table,  and  the  ladies  of  the  two  families  vied  in 
friendly  rivalry,  with  the  opposing  cook-books  of  two 
nations,  to  furnish  a  material  complement  to  our 
spiritual  refreshment. 

Especially  valuable  to  one  who  floundered  in  an 
effort  to  make  of  a  local  incident,  which  though  tragic 
was  grotesque,  an  acceptable  picture,  were  his  criticisms 
upon  the  work  I  had  begun;  and  when  the  following 
summer  the  picture  was  completed,  I  am  glad  to  re- 
member that  this  master  of  American  genre  painting 
found  more  to  interest  him  in  my  "Skipper  Ireson" 
than  the  press  of  the  time,  or  any  of  my  more  im- 
mediate contemporaries,  voiced  a  few  months  after, 
when  it  was  exhibited  at  the  Society  of  American 
Artists. 

During  all  this  period,  up  to  November,  1880,  when 
my  Nantucket  experience  ended,  letters  had  been  ex- 
changed with  the  comrades  in  Europe  more  or  less 
intermittently.  As  it  was  to  be  to  the  end,  Louis  Steven- 
son's correspondence  can  be  best  described  as  inter- 
mittent; at  times  letters  following  with  hardly  the  time 
between  for  a  response;  at  others  a  prolonged  silence, 
which  no  inquiring  letter  could  break;  while  as  for  Bob, 
he  was  avowedly  the  worst  letter  writer  in  the  world  as 
to  quantity,  and  in  quality  his  rare  epistles  were  mostly 
given  up  to  ingenious  explanations  of  protracted  with- 


A  NANTUCKET  INTERLUDE     269 

drawal  from  human  intercourse,  or  an  exposition  of  the 
dearth  of  matter  epistolary. 

When  one's  personal  news  consists  principally  of  re- 
iterated accounts  of  disaster,  more  or  less  serious,  one 
is  wisely  inspired  perhaps  to  refrain  from  letter-writing; 
and  we  know  now  that  circumstance  bore  heavily  on 
my  two  friends  during  that  period;  and,  as  on  this  side 
of  the  Atlantic,  fortune  was  not  smiling  on  the  third 
friend,  the  light  of  our  mutual  correspondence  dwindled, 
flickered,  and  went  out. 

A  year  went  by  when  one  day  in  Nantucket  I  received 
a  post-card  whose  brief  words  told  me  much,  but  not 
enough,  of  Louis  Stevenson.     Here  it  is: 

"New  York,  August  7,  1880. 
"My  dear  Low: 

"My  wife  and  I  were  looking  all  day  yesterday  for 
you  and  Mrs.  L.;  at  last  we  found  you  were  at  Nan- 
tucket.    To-day  we  sail  for  England.     All  we  can  do 
this  trip  is  to  wish  you  good-by  and  God-speed. 
"Yours  very  sincerely, 

"Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 

Part  of  Stevenson's  story  I  divined;  his  presence  here 
and  his  return  to  England  with  a  wife  could  only  mean 
that  his  apparently  hopeless  affection  had  been  rewarded 
— a  fitting  recompense  for  an  abiding  faith  and  such 
courageous  devotion  as  I  could,  then,  only  faintly 
imagine.  "What  a  man  truly  wants,  that  will  he  get, 
or  he  will  be  changed  in  trying,"  was  an  aphorism  that 
he  wrote  afterward  and  on  which,  in  the  quest  of  what 
he  truly  wanted,  he  had  acted  when  he  left  England  in 


270      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

August,  1879.  In  his  letters,  in  the  "Life"  by  Graham 
Balfour  and  in  the  "Amateur  Emigrant,"  the  story  is 
fully  told,  and  need  not  be  repeated  here.  I  learned  in 
after  talk  with  Louis  that  some  part  of  the  day  of  his 
first  arrival  in  New  York  he  had  sought  to  find  me, 
through  the  rain,  laden  with  the  "six  fat  volumes  of 
Bancroft's  'History  of  the  United  States'";  his  first 
purchase  on  landing,  dictated  by  a  conscientious  desire 
to  acquaint  himself  with  the  country  through  which  he 
was  to  journey. 

Perhaps,  if  he  could  have  found  me,  he  might  have 
been  induced  to  break  this  journey  and  enjoy  a  much- 
needed  rest  before  confronting  the  fatigues  of  an  emi- 
grant train;  but  I  was  already  gone  from  the  city,  and 
so,  uncheered  by  the  God-speed  of  a  comrade,  he  set  his 
face  across  the  plains.  He  had  learned  that  I  was  at 
Nantucket,  which  he  had  understood  was  "some  out- 
landish place,  far  out  at  sea";  and  why,  during  the 
year  of  his  trial  in  California,  he  never  wrote  me,  he 
afterward  explained,  was  by  reason  of  the  uncertainty 
in  which  he  lived — and  nearly  died — in  that  dreadful 
year.  A  portion  of  this  time,  at  least,  he  was  joined  to 
Nantucket  by  a  closer  link  than  he  knew,  for  in  the 
dedication  of  "Prince  Otto"  he  speaks  of  the  house  in 
Monterey  where  the  book  was  begun :  "  an  old  wooden 
house  embowered  in  creepers;  a  house  that  was  far  gone 
in  the  respectable  stages  of  antiquity  and  seemed  indis- 
soluble from  the  green  garden  in  which  it  stood,  and 
that  yet  was  a  sea-traveller  in  its  younger  days,  and 
had  come  round  the  Horn  piecemeal  in  the  belly  of  a 
ship."  Perhaps,  in  truth,  this  may  have  been  a  sister- 
house  to  that  in  which  I  dwelt  in  Nantucket;    for  in 


A  NANTUCKET  INTERLUDE     271 

the  days  of  '49,  accompanying  the  exodus  of  a  large 
part  of  its  male  population,  many  such  houses  were 
taken  down  in  Nantucket  and  shipped  as  ballast  to 
California,  to  shelter  the  argonauts  in  their  quest  for 
gold.  And  so,  perhaps,  two  friends,  sundered  by  space, 
may  have  looked  through  windows  upon  different  seas, 
not  forgetting,  but  each  preoccupied  by  different  prob- 
lems; and,  deaf  to  the  voices  of  inanimate  surroundings, 
have  slept  under  roofs  that  once  stood  side  by  side  and 
shared  sunshine  and  rain  together. 

As  has  been  seen,  Stevenson  was  no  more  fortunate, 
on  his  return  through  New  York  after  the  happy  ter- 
mination of  his  trial,  in  his  effort  to  grasp  the  hand  of 
an  old  friend,  than  I  was  in  thus  missing  the  oppor- 
tunity of  being  the  first  to  congratulate  him  on  his 
marriage.  A  letter,  however,  promptly  repaired  in  part 
this  misfortune,  though  six  more  years  were  to  elapse 
before  we  again  met — "with  all  and  much  more  than 
all  of  the  old  affection;  which  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  able 
to  say" — in  the  city  of  our  youth,  Paris. 


XXIII 
COMRADES  IN  NEW  YORK 

MEANWHILE  the  temporary  Nantucketer  had 
returned  to  New  York,  called  thither  by  John 
La  Farge,  with  the  flattering  assurance  that 
his  decorative  instincts  might  find  their  use  in  the 
assistance  that  he  might  render  for  some  important 
work  Mr.  La  Farge  was  about  to  undertake.  Of  the 
year  that  followed  I  could  find  much  to  say  but  for  the 
circumstance,  fortunate  for  us  all,  that  he  who  guided 
my  efforts — and  pardoned  my  mistakes — continues  the 
active  practice  of  his  art,  and  so  precludes  the  expres- 
sion of  what  might  seem  superfluous  (and  superlative) 
compliment.  This  much,  however,  may  be  expressed, 
since  it  is  of  general  application.  The  experience  of 
solving  practical  problems,  born  of  the  necessities  of 
work,  which  on  the  morrow  may  take  its  place  as  a  part 
of  a  general  scheme  of  decoration,  is  of  extreme  value 
to  any  theorist  in  the  decorative  arts.  The  power  of 
imagining  how  work  will  appear,  when  seen  in  the  light 
and  in  the  surrounding  for  which  it  is  designed,  is 
equally  of  importance.  I  have  the  word  of  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  that  "without  this  inborn  faculty  a  man 
had  best  leave  decoration  alone";  but  with  even  a  fair 
exercise  of  this  faculty,  work  seen  in  place  for  the  first 
time  holds  many  surprises  of  a  disillusioning  nature, 
which,  fortunately,  are  in  many  cases  susceptible  of 
correction.     In  his  ordinary  practice  a  decorator  may 

272 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  273 

learn  to  avoid  and  guard  against  such  error;  but  such 
practice  may  be  greatly  limited  by  the  long  intervals 
occurring  between  successive  works.  It  is  good  fort- 
une, therefore,  to  have  great  quantities  of  work  em- 
bracing many  different  problems,  ranging  from  simple 
tones  to  cover  a  wall  to  decorative  ornament,  pictorial 
representation,  and  even  sculpture  and  embroideries — 
for  all  these,  the  pictorial  work  comprising  both  paint- 
ing and  stained  glass,  made  up,  that  eventful  year,  the 
activities  of  the  "shop,"  as  we  called  it,  in  imitative 
memory  of  the  bottega  in  which  the  Italian  artist  of  the 
cinque-cento  worked.  In  most  of  this  the  neophyte  was 
allowed  to  have  a  hand,  and  from  all  he  gained  prac- 
tical experience;  of  which,  through  his  future  work,  he 
was  to  feel  the  benefit  as  far  outweighing  any  previous 
study  by  which  he  had  essayed  to  profit. 

During  this  year  two  of  my  Paris  friends  returned 
to  New  York.  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  came  back, 
bringing  the  statue  of  Farragut,  which  upon  its  erec- 
tion was  recognized,  and  has  remained,  as  a  master- 
work  of  sculpture;  sharing  only  with  H.  K.  Brown's 
"Washington,"  in  Union  Square,  J.  Q.  A.  Ward's 
"Indian  Hunter,"  in  Central  Park,  and  Saint-Gaudens' 
own  "Sherman,"  in  the  Plaza  on  Fifth  Avenue,  any 
part  of  its  preeminence  as  a  notable  monument  in  our 
city. 

New  York  was  not  to  work  its  spell  upon  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  once,  for  his  first  months  in  the  city,  where 
he  was  immediately  overwhelmed  with  orders  and  op- 
portunities for  work,  were  tormented  by  the  ceaseless 
activity  he  felt  about  him.  Already  in  Paris  he  had 
dwelt  upon  the  hustle  and  bustle  of  our  life  here,  which 


274      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

he  contrasted  with  his  life  in  Rome,  and  compared  un- 
favourably with  that  of  Paris,  with  its  realization  that 
art  is  long,  and  its  acceptance  of  the  calm  and  studied 
production  of  its  artists.  He  had  then  confided  to  me 
his  intention,  and  his  hope  that,  when  the  "Farragut" 
and  the  other  commissions  which  he  had  brought  with 
him  were  finished,  he  could,  with  the  profit  resulting 
from  these  tasks,  devote  himself  for  two  or  three  years 
"to  do  something  for  himself,"  some  work  that  would 
embody  the  fullest  expression  of  his  talent  as  he  him- 
self conceived  it. 

I  doubt  if  the  "Farragut,"  with  the  method  of  work 
already  strong  upon  him,  a  method  of  unsparing  effort 
and  continuous  improvement,  purchased  at  the  cost  of 
equally  continuous  changes,  left  any  margin  of  profit 
whatever;  and  the  habit  of  self-criticism  and  sedulous 
research  of  ultimate  perfection  grew  stronger  as  time 
went  on,  and  never  gave  him  the  leisure,  in  his  too 
short  life,  to  do  more  than  respond  to  the  definite  de- 
mands made  upoji  him  by  our  country,  that  in  his  case 
was  so  fortunately  inspired  as  to  appreciate  and  give 
constant  employment  to  our  greatest  sculptor. 

The  spell  of  our  city,  which  at  first  exercised  this 
disturbing  effect,  grew  upon  Saint-Gaudens ;  and 
though  in  after  years  his  country  home  at  Cornish  was 
dear  to  him  in  both  summer  and  winter,  he  soon  became 
a  most  loyal  citizen  of  New  York.  In  the  earlier  years 
after  his  return,  during  the  summers  when  our  women- 
folk had  sought  the  sea  or  the  mountains  and  the  men 
were  left  in  town,  there  were  few  corners  of  the  city 
where  we  did  not  penetrate.  These  were  the  palmy 
days  when   Harrigan   and  Hart  gave  to  New  York,  if 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  275 


not  a  great  work  of  art  closely  studied  from  nature, 
at  least  a  clever  caricature  founded  upon  recogniz- 
able city  types.  Saint-Gaudens  was  one  of  the  most 
appreciative  frequenters  of  the  downtown  theatre, 
where  this  nearest  approach  to  a  native  drama  of 
our  own  was  given,  and  his  joy  was  unrestrained  as 
we  followed  the  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  of 
the  Mulligan  Guards. 

With  his  frank  camaraderie,  in  which  was  mingled  the 
winning  charm  of  the  Celt,  the  Latin  exuberance  of 
Provence,  and  a  large  admixture  of  our  own  cheerful 
absence  of  formality,  he  drew  about  him  many  friends, 
so  that  frequently  these  diversions  were  shared  by 
others,  some  of  whom  live  to  mourn  him,  some  who 
have  preceded  him  to  the  grave.  Of  these  it  is  well 
within  the  elastic  scope  of  this  chronicle  to  recall  the 
memory  of  Joseph  M.  Wells — Joe  Wells,  as  he  was 
known  to  his  friends — as  one  of  our  younger  architects, 
whose  works,  or  those  for  which  he  was  chiefly  respon- 
sible, guard  a  certain  anonymity  to  the  public  knowledge, 
as  his  practice  was  absorbed  in  that  of  the  firm  of  archi- 
tects where  he  was  employed.  I  am  confident,  how- 
ever, that  McKim,  Mead  &  White,  have  never  sought 
to  conceal  the  large  part  of  merit  due  Wells  for  his 
share  in  the  design  of  the  facade  of  the  Century  Club 
or  the  handsome  block  of  houses  surrounding  a  spacious 
court  on  Madison  Avenue  between  Fiftieth  and  Fifty- 
first  streets,  to  name  but  two  works  in  which  his  service 
was  eminent;  and  these  alone,  though  Wells  died 
before  giving  the  full  measure  of  his  talent,  should  serve 
to  keep  his  memory  as  one  who  has  done  his  part  in  the 
embellishment  of  our  city.     Though  Wells  had  not  a 


276      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

drop  of  bitterness  in  his  nature,  it  pleased  his  humour 
to  play  the  cynic,  as  it  pleased  his  friends  to  humour 
him,  and  to  accentuate  their  asseverations  of  belief  in 
his  profound  and  deep-seated  contempt  for  mankind. 
This  he  took  in  good  part,  and  returned  the  compliment 
by  a  ready  and  all-embracing  depreciation  of  his  in- 
timates, aiming  his  barbed  wit  with  a  shrewd  strain  of 
intelligence  that  more  than  once  hit  the  mark. 

Save  in  physical  appearance  he  had  much  of  Thack- 
eray's Warrington,  in  "Pendennis,"  and  the  gentler 
side  of  his  character  in  which,  like  his  prototype,  he 
was  not  deficient,  was  shown  by  his  love  for  music. 
Chronologically,  it  was  three  or  four  years  later  that, 
through  Wells'  activity,  the  concerts  of  chamber  music, 
by  four  musicians  selected  from  the  orchestra  conducted 
in  those  days  by  Theodore  Thomas,  were  given  in  the 
large  studio  in  Thirty-sixth  Street,  which  Saint-Gaudens 
had  built  for  his  work. 

Some  forty  men — painters,  sculptors,  and  architects 
for  the  most  part — were  joined  in  this  enterprise,  and 
for  two  years,  every  Sunday  afternoon  from  October 
to  May,  we  sat  or  reclined  at  our  ease  on  the  divans 
which  ran  along  the  walls  of  the  studio,  listening,  with 
the  pleasant  accompaniment  of  tobacco,  to  the  two 
violins,  the  viola,  and  the  'cello;  and  Bach,  Mozart, 
and  Beethoven  were  of  the  company.  The  death  of  our 
impresario,  Wells,  came  to  disperse  rudely  this  har- 
monious assemblage,  for  none  of  us  had  the  heart — as 
few  would  have  had  the  ability — to  reorganize  the 
company  for  a  third  year,  though,  under  other  auspices, 
some  survival  of  its  organization  still  exists,  I  believe. 
Extracts  from  two  letters  of  Saint-Gaudens  show  the 


Ju=cph  Al.  Wells 
Frum  the  [)ortrait  by  T.  W.  Dewing 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  277 

two  friends  in  so  amiable  a  light  that  I  must  quote  them 
here.  The  first,  addressed  to  me  at  a  time  when  I  was 
spending  a  summer  iri  Europe  and  Saint-Gaudens  had 
newly  set  up  his  tent  in  Cornish,  concludes  as  follows, 
first  speaking  of  another  friend  who  was  there  on  a 
visit  and  was  about  to  leave: 

"...  and  then  Wells,  the  spitfire,  will  come  on  the 
scene,  leave  all  his  maliciousness  off  as  he  enters  the 
house,  as  a  turtle  would  its  shell,  and  become  one  of 
the  most  companionable  of  men.    .    .    ." 

The  second  citation  explains  itself: 

"148  West  36TH  St.,  Feb.  29,  1892. 
"Dear  Low: 

"Next  Sunday,  March  sixth,  come  to  my  studio  at 
3  P.  M.  The  fellows  who  formed,  during  its  early  days, 
the  quartette  will  be  here  to  listen  to  three  pieces  of 
music  of  which  Wells  was  fond.  March  first  was  his 
birthday,  and  a  cherished  desire  on  my  part  to  recall 
him  to  our  memories  every  year,  in  a  way  he  would  best 
like,  I  will  carry  into  execution  for  the  first  time.  None 
but  the  artists  who  used  to  come  to  the  first  concerts 
will  be  there. 

"Thine,  A.  St.  G." 

In  one  incident  of  Saint-Gaudens'  determination  to 
give  to  the  world  none  but  his  best,  coute  que  coute,  I 
happened  to  be  involved.  It  was  typical  of  many 
others,  and  relates  to  the  statue  of  Captain  Randall,  the 
benefactor    of   the    Sailors'    Snug    Harbor    on    Staten 


278      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

Island.  The  sculptor  had  received  the  commission  for 
this  figure  about  the  same  time  as  that  of  the  "  Farra- 
gut,"  and  in  Paris  had  executed  a  half-size  model,  full 
of  spirit  and  plausible  veracity,  although  no  portrait 
existed  of  the  man  it  sought  to  celebrate.  This,  how- 
ever, had  left  him  free  to  realize  a  fine  type  of  a  captain 
in  our  merchant-marine  at  the  beginning  of  the  nine- 
teenth century;  and  as  the  model  was  finished  in  every 
detail,  all  that  remained  was  to  have  it  enlarged — in 
part  a  mechanical  process — ready  for  the  final  touches 
of  the  artist.  This  his  friends  had  understood  was 
being  done  in  a  temporary  studio,  somewhere  in  the 
upper  part  of  New  York,  though  none  of  us  had  seen 
it.  We  had  heard  much,  however,  of  the  impatience 
of  the  committee  which  had  the  erection  of  the  statue  in 
charge,  who,  seeing  that  the  "Farragut"  had  been  in 
place  more  than  a  year,  and  understanding  that  the 
"Randall"  had  been  in  an  advanced  state  of  progress 
for  a  much  longer  time,  gave  the  sculptor  little  peace  of 
mind  in  their  pardonable  desire  to  hasten  the  end  of  his 
labours.  Such  was  the  situation  when  one  day  Saint- 
Gaudens  asked  me  to  go  to  an  address  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  One  hundred  and  twenty-fifth  Street — 
in  those  days  this  now  busy  locality  seemed  like  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth — where,  at  the  office  of  a 
coal-yard,  a  key  would  be  given  me,  when  I  explained 
that  I  came  from  him.  With  this  key  I  was  to  enter  a 
building  in  the  rear  of  the  coal-yard,  where  I  would 
find  the  "Randall,"  now  enlarged  to  its  full  size.  I 
was  to  go  alone,  and  was  to  study  the  statue  "for  at 
least  half  an  hour,"  or  until  I  felt  that  I  had  seen  it 
sufficiently.     By  this  time  I  knew  my  Saint-Gaudens 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  279 

well  enough  to  realize  that  he  was  asking  from  me  some 
form  of  friendly  service  which  was  of  serious  import 
to  him;  and  so,  without  further  question  or  explana- 
tion, I  departed  on  his  errand.  I  executed  his  directions 
in  every  particular,  and  soon  found  myself  in  a  large 
and  sky-lighted  shed,  completely  bare  of  all  other 
objects  than  the  small  model  and  the  full-sized  statue 
of  Randall. 

The  first  impression  made  by  the  latter  was  dis- 
tinctly unfavourable,  and  this,  when  confirmed  after  a 
more  careful  scrutiny,  pained  me  considerably,  for  I  had 
greatly  admired  the  smaller  model.  I  stayed  my  pre- 
scribed half-hour,  and  more,  viewing  the  large  figure 
from  every  side,  and  the  more  I  studied  it  the  more  I 
found  it  lacking  in  the  spirit,  gracious  but  not  unmanly, 
of  the  lesser  figure,  which  was  entirely  by  Saint-Gaudens' 
hand,  while,  of  course,  the  enlarged  statue  was  chiefly 
the  work  of  an  assistant.  The  loss  of  life  and  action 
I  finally  decided  was  more  than  superficial;  the  figure 
was  of  heavier  mould  throughout,  and  no  deft  working 
over  the  surface  by  Saint-Gaudens  would  regain  for 
it  the  spirit  which,  it  was  conceivable,  might  readily 
have  been  lost  by  his  less-inspired  assistant.  My  con- 
clusion was  that  in  the  enlargement  definite  errors  of 
proportion  had  been  made,  which  quite  changed  the 
character  of  the  figure.  I  had  no  means  of  measure- 
ment by  which,  in  comparison  with  the  small  model,  I 
could  verify  this  impression;  but  with  a  heavy  heart  and 
a  lively  anticipation  of  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  under 
the  searching  questions  which  I  knew  my  friend  had 
in  reserve,  I  returned  to  meet  him. 

On  my  long  journey  downtown  I  debated  seriously 


280      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

with  my  conscience  to  determine  my  exact  duty  in  the 
premises.  I  reahzed  that  to  send  the  statue,  after  a 
few  days  of  his  own  work,  to  the  bronze-foundry  to  be 
cast  would  hasten  its  dehvery  to  the  committee,  and  the 
consequent  payment  of  its  price.  I  knew  enough  of 
the  financial  situation  of  my  friend  to  realize  that  this 
solution  would  not  only  be  the  most  desirable,  but  I 
also  knew  that  the  installation  of  his  studio,  and  the 
expense  of  the  large  amount  of  work  which  he  had  in 
progress,  had  nearly  drained  dry  his  every  resource. 
The  committee  in  charge  had  strained  its  patience 
apparently  to  the  last  degree,  and  serious  delay,  such 
as  would  be  necessitated  for  the  complete  revision  of 
the  statue,  might  possibly  mean  the  withdrawal  of  the 
commission;  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  at  that 
time  Saint-Gaudens  had  not  attained  his  after-position 
of  almost  autocratic  power  in  matters  of  sculpture; 
nor  had  he  as  yet  schooled  all  committees  in  the  poten- 
tiality of  patient  waiting  that,  in  his  case,  meant  no 
loss. 

Finally  all  this  divagation  of  mind  centred  on  one 
thought:  what  would  Saint-Gaudens  do  if  the  case  was 
reversed  ?  Undoubtedly  he  would  enjoy  his  respon- 
sibility as  little  as  I  did,  but,  in  a  case  of  artistic  con- 
science, he  would,  coute  que  coiite,  tell  the  truth.  With 
a  high  resolve  to  consider  only  the  art  side  of  the  ques- 
tion, I  met  my  friend — or  rather  faced  a  catechist — for 
to  the  questions  he  put  he  divined  my  answers,  soften 
them  as  I  would.  Finally  in  a  tone  of  decision  he  said, 
"That  settles  it!  I  didn't  tell  you  before,  but  I  sent 
John  La  Farge  and  Stanford  White  in  the  same  way  I 
sent  you  to  see  the  figure;    and  as  all   three  of  you 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  281 

without  consultation  say  the  same  thing,  it  simply  con- 
firms my  own  feeling.  The  figure  must  come  down." 
"  But  the  committee  ?"  I  urged.  As  some  of  these  gen- 
tlemen may  be  still  living,  and  as  for  all  of  them  Saint- 
Gaudens  at  other  moments  had  the  highest  respect,  it 
is  unnecessary  to  record  the  quite  impersonal  remark 
that  answered  this  objection.  "But  with  a  certain 
amount  of  your  own  work  on  the  figure  as  it  stands — " 
I  began,  in  further  desire  to  ward  off  impending  dis- 
aster; but  here  Saint-Gaudens  wearily  interrupted  me 
with:  "Low,  do  you  honestly  believe  that  with  the 
figure  in  its  present  condition  I  could  by  any  effort  of 
my  own  make  it  as  good  as  the  Farragut  ?"  and,  seeing 
me  hesitate,  he  added,  "what  would  you  have  me  do  t" 
And  I  found  the  courage  to  say  that  I  would  have  him 
do  it  over. 

The  episode  was  not  ended  there,  however.  Careful 
measurement  proved  beyond  doubt  that  the  small 
model  had  been  improperly  enlarged,  and  the  great 
figure  was  pulled  down.  Then  ensued  a  period  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  the  small  model  on  the  part  of  the 
sculptor,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  persuasion  his  friends 
could  employ,  he  began  another  and  different  half- 
sized  model.  How  he  parried  the  impatience  of  the 
committee,  that  all  this  time  hovered  as  it  were  in  the 
background,  I  know  not.  Probably  his  varied  nation- 
ality was  brought  into  play;  and  the  blarney  of  Ireland, 
the  suavity  of  the  South  of  France,  and  the  resourceful- 
ness of  the  United  States  were  all  taxed  to  procure  the 
necessary  delay.  The  second  model  was  far  inferior  to 
the  first;  on  this  point  his  friends  were  tacitly  agreed; 
though  Saint-Gaudens  had  by  this  time  reached  a  point 


282      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

of  nervous  tension  where,  as  he  worked  on  his  second 
model  with  dogged  perseverance,  he  no  longer  asked 
advice  or  criticism,  which  we,  intuitively,  refrained 
from  offering. 

At  last  the  second  model  was  finished,  and  happening 
in  his  studio  one  morning,  I  learned  that  the  ever- 
menacing  committee  was  expected  that  afternoon. 
Together  we  entered  the  smaller  of  his  two  studios 
where,  before  a  background  of  drapery,  stood  the  two 
models  side  by  side.  We  sat  down  before  them,  one 
of  us  hoping  in  his  secret  soul  that  the  other  would  not 
ask  the  question  that  he  saw  impending.  Almost  at 
once  came  the  dreaded  query:  "Which  do  you  like 
best .?"  and  honesty  answered,  "The  first,  by  all  odds." 
There  was  a  moment  of  very  painful  silence,  and  then 
Saint-Gaudens  said,  as  though  talking  to  himself:  "I 
don't  believe  that  I'll  let  the  committee  see  that  first 
model  again";  and  then,  almost  immediately,  with  a 
complete  change  of  tone,  manner,  and  countenance,  he 
cried,  ''Ah!  quelle  bonne  idee,  I'll  not  show  them  the 
second!"  Quite  joyfully,  he  called  an  assistant  and 
had  the  second  model  removed;  and  I  left  him,  happier 
than  I  had  seen  him  for  weeks,  ready  to  face  his  bad 
quarter  hour  with  the  committee,  and  explain  as  best 
he  could  the  sudden  reversion  to  his  first  model.  He 
afterward  had  this  "pointed  up" — enlarged  with 
mathematical  accuracy — and  then,  after  his  skilful  re- 
touching, the  finished  figure  in  the  clay  was  cast  in 
plaster,  moulded  in  bronze,  and  erect  on  its  pedestal 
the  efiigy  of  Samuel  Randall  looks  to-day  from  the 
shores  of  Staten  Island,  with  the  Sailors'  Snug  Harbor 
of  his  foundation  for  a  background — a  characteristic 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  283 

work  of  a  sculptor  who  uttered  nothing  base,  who 
always,  coiite  que  coute,  gave  of  his  best. 

The  second  friend,  whose  arrival  from  Paris  was 
noted  some  pages  back,  was  Theodore  Robinson.  He 
had  returned  to  the  home  of  his  parents  in  Wisconsin, 
and  it  was  easy  to  read  between  the  lines  of  his  letters 
that  Evansville,  Wis.,  "was  not  Athens" — or  Paris. 

In  addition  to  my  work  for  Mr.  La  Farge,  I  had  been 
given,  again  through  the  friendly  intermediary  of  Wyatt 
Eaton,  a  position  as  teacher  of  drawing  in  a  fashion- 
able school  in  the  city.  The  necessities  of  the  "shop" 
were  such  as  to  demand  all  my  time,  however,  and,  to 
extricate  Robinson  from  surroundings  where,  as  he 
wrote,  he  was  fast  relapsing  into  a  vegetable  state,  it 
was  easily  arranged  that  he  was  to  come  on  to  New 
York  and  replace  me  in  my  function  as  drawing- 
master.  In  some  respects  this  was  but  a  scurvy  trick 
to  play  on  a  friend,  as  I  took  pains  to  explain  to  him, 
for  while  teaching  a  class  of  art  students  interested  in 
their  work  and  absorbed  in  their  studies  is  one  of  the 
most  useful  and  inspiring  employments  for  an  artist, 
superficial  instruction  in  drawing,  in  the  few  hours  of 
the  week  that  can  be  allotted  to  such  study  in  the 
curriculum  of  a  popular  school,  is  quite  a  different 
matter. 

Both  Robinson  and  I  in  after-time  were  enabled  to 
do  what  we  could  in  the  higher  instruction  of  our  art — 
he  in  the  schools  of  the  Pennsylvania  Academy  of  the 
Fine  Arts,  and  I  in  the  Woman's  Art  School  of  Cooper 
Union  and  in  the  National  Academy  of  Design;  but, 
in  the  earlier  instance  of  which  I  speak,  it  was  chiefly 
as  a   bread-winner  that  it  had   appealed   to  me,   and 


284       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

it  was  upon  this  basis  that  my  friend  accepted  it  in 
turn. 

The  emoluments  were  not  great;  but  Robinson, 
more  than  any  of  my  craft  that  I  have  known,  was 
endowed  with  that  supremely  useful  virtue  of  frugality; 
and  the  small  salary  he  received  sufficed  for  his  wants. 
His  extremely  few  wants,  in  truth,  for  no  one  ever  rose 
superior  to  the  ordinary  and  material  comforts  of  life 
more  than  he.  Nay,  from  the  time  when  he  found 
certain  advantages  in  sleeping,  curled  up  in  a  cupboard, 
in  his  Paris  studio,  like  some  Diogenes  in  his  tub,  he 
scrupulously  avoided  what  he  considered  pampering 
luxuries,  that  were  in  other  eyes  the  most  ordinary 
comforts.  I  have  known  him  to  abandon  a  commodious 
studio  with  a  living-room  attached,  which  had  been 
provided  him  by  well-meaning  but  too-solicitous  friends, 
for  a  bare  room  at  the  top  of  four  flights  of  stairs,  where 
he  could  sleep  on  a  cot  behind  a  screen,  and  "be  free 
from  the  tyranny  of  modern  conveniences." 

He  derived  certain  advantages  from  this  Spartan 
attribute  when,  in  after  years,  he  faced  the  discomforts 
of  the  country  inns  where  he  passed  his  winters  in 
France;  and  at  all  times  his  dignified  and  self-sustaining 
frugality  enabled  him  to  be  more  his  own  master  than 
the  majority  of  mankind.  His  art  at  the  time  of  his 
first  return  from  his  studies  in  Europe  seemed  to  some 
of  us  already  full  of  promise,  though  it  lacked  the 
qualities  of  colour,  and  the  rarer  merit  of  the  retention 
in  a  finished  work  of  the  initial  charm  of  a  sketch,  that 
later  gained  for  him  the  most  enviable  distinction  that  an 
artist  can  attain — the  approval  of  his  fellow-craftsmen. 

Not  long  after  his  arrival  in  New  York  the  demand 


COMRADES   IN  NEW  YORK  285 

for  additional  assistance  in  the  "shop"  enabled  him  to 
enter  the  employ  of  Mr.  La  Farge,  and  added  him  to  the 
number  at  work  there  who  persuaded  themselves  for  a 
year  or  so  that  the  days  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  were 
revived  on  Manhattan  Island.  Here  Robinson  de- 
veloped a  delicate  and  refined  decorative  sense  that,  at 
the  time,  promised  to  dominate  his  work.  He  had 
always  had  a  very  pretty  vein  of  imagination,  and  as 
he  was  a  man  of  extensive  reading,  he  made  many 
composition  sketches,  inspired  most  frequently  by  the 
poets.  In  view  of  his  later  devotion  to  the  tenets  of  a 
school  of  art  where  such  tendencies  are  frowned  upon, 
it  is  curious  to  remember  the  days  when  Milton,  Keats 
and  Swinburne  were  the  gods  he  chose  to  follow. 
Taking  him  as  he  was,  then  or  later,  he  was  to  his  in- 
timates a  rare  and  cheering  presence.  To  the  indiffer- 
ent he  opposed  an  indifference  that,  in  comparison  with 
his  physical  proportions,  was  almost  monumental;  and 
these  could  scarce  understand  the  charm  which  lay 
hidden  in  this  reticent,  self-reliant — and  at  times 
cynically  frank — personality.  His  delicate  constitution 
imposed  from  his  birth  many  burdens  upon  him,  and 
he  had  early  learned  to  limit  his  enjoyments  in  work  or 
play.  His  life  he  had  regulated  to  ensure  his  most 
cherished  desire  for  independence,  and  he  systematic- 
ally demanded  little  from  the  world  in  general,  only 
willing  to  receive  from  his  intimates  much  less  than — 
it  was  his  only  prodigality — he  gave  in  return. 

To  carry  so  much  of  his  story  as  I  can  tell  here  to  the 
point  where  I  would  leave  it  for  the  present,  it  may  be 
said  that  after  a  time  in  Mr.  La  Farge's  employ  Robin- 
son went  to  Boston,  to  fill  a  similar  position  in  a  decora- 


286       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

tive  house  established  there  by  Prentice  Treadwell. 
Here  he  remained  for  three  years,  doing,  however,  work 
which,  under  his  contract,  was  entirely  of  his  own  in- 
vention, so  that  in  a  number  of  private  houses  in  New- 
port and  elsewhere  there  is  charming  decoration  by  his 
hand. 

After  this  period  he  found  himself  in  possession  of 
sufficient  means  to  return  to  Europe,  where,  in  France, 
under  the  influence  of  Claude  Monet,  his  art  was  to 
mature,  and  where  for  the  moment  I  may  leave  him. 


XXIV 
TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES 

THE  sequence  of  experimental  years  went  on  four, 
six,  eight — years  in  which  the  cHpper-ship  of 
youth  was  to  "find"  itself,  to  make  repeated  voy- 
ages— ofttimes  to  strange  ports,  piloted  by  hope,  where 
no  cargo  rewarded  the  venture;  more  often  in  ballast 
on  unwilling  cruises,  where  the  return  cargo  was  of 
dubious  quality;  to  acquire  the  confidence  of  a  limited 
class  of  shippers;  and,  in  the  end,  to  settle  down  as  a 
common  carrier  in  the  merchant-marine  of  the  arts; 
achieving,  perchance,  a  career  of  usefulness,  albeit  the 
underwriters  may  be  loth  to  accord  the  A-i  rating  to 
which  the  master-mariner  aspired  when  he  first  set 
sail. 

To  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  there  came  at  irregular 
intervals  many  letters  telling  of  conditions  not  unlike 
those  which  were  being  lived  through — and  down — 
here.  It  is  in  such  years  that  a  man's  friends  are  of 
avail.  In  the  depth  of  winter  to  my  literally  ice-bound 
isolation  in  Nantucket  there  had  sailed  from  milder 
climes  that  gracious,  though  tolerably  anemic,  lady 
painted  by  Botticelli  in  his  "  Birth  of  Venus,"  in  the 
Uffizzi  in  Florence,  in  the  guise  of  a  photograph  of  the 
picture  sent  me  by  Saint-Gaudens,  who  at  the  time  was 
revisiting  Italy.  The  picture  was  then  entirely  un- 
known to  me,  and  the  photograph,  now  sadly  faded, 
has  hung  before  my  eyes  from  that  day  to  this,  and  is 

287 


288       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


counted  among  my  most  treasured  possessions;  though 
since  those  days  I  have  been  fortunately  enabled  to  pay 
due  obeisance  to  the  lady  in  propria  persona  upon  the 
wall  of  the  Uffizzi,  from  which  she  smiles,  immortal. 

The  advent  of  this  photograph,  accompanied  by  a 
letter,  which,  alas,  is  lost,  filled  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  discovery  of  new  beauties  in  a  land  which  my 
friend  loved;  to  one  seated  in  an  attic  chamber  in 
Nantucket  looking  out  on  a  winter  sea,  engaged  in  con- 
cocting Biblical  illustrations,  without  models,  without 
data,  without  preparation  or  adequate  knowledge — hag- 
ridden by  a  sense  of  failure — meant  a  new  lease  of  hope. 

I  would  fain  avoid  any  sense  of  mere  protestation  in 
thus  piping  unceasingly  my  "penny-whistle"  in  praise 
of  friendship,  but  the  unknowing  service  rendered  in 
such  a  case  as  this,  or  in  the  interchange  of  letters — in 
which  we  are  generally  more  truly  ourselves  than  in 
the  spoken  word — can  hardly  be  overstated. 

Such  were  the  messages  that  came  in  those  days  from 
Louis  Stevenson — such,  indeed,  are  those  which  come 
more  rarely  to-day  from  other  friends;  for,  though  the 
great  destroyer  has  dealt  many  blows,  some  few  sur- 
vive, and  though  the  musician  may  be  shorter  of  breath, 
the  penny-whistle  still  plays  the  self-same  air. 

Bob,  as  I  have  said,  found  the  scene  in  which  he 
moved,  the  friend  with  whom  he  could  talk,  more  ap- 
pealing than  long-distance  communication.  Still  there 
were  a  few  letters  and  constant  messages  from  or  con- 
cerning him  in  his  cousin's  letters.  Persistent  gnaw- 
ing at  its  principal  had  devoured  his  little  fortune  down 
to  the  last  crumb  and,  all  unprepared  in  any  of  the  by- 
paths of  art,  incapable  of  illustration,  of  assistance  in 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  289 


decoration — if  there  was  any  decoration  in  England  at 
that  time;  or  of  instruction  in  art — an  eflPort  in  that 
direction  furnished  as  its  chief  result  a  most  amusing 
description  of  the  trials  of  a  drawing-master;  he  could 
only  paint  pictures — which  no  one  would  buy.  "Do 
people  ever  sell  pictures — I  mean,  freely  and  fairly — in 
open  market,  and  when  they  please  as  they  sell  stocks  ?" 
was  a  cry  of  the  heart  interjected  into  one  of  his  strangely 
scattering  epistles.  "Can  you  believe  that  I  constantly 
talk  of  you  both  with  my  wife  and  yet  never  write  ^  It 
is,  however,  true,  and  what  is  more,  I  can't  write  now 
I  try.  I  loathe  the  operation.  I  can't  say  anything  I 
want,  so  I  will  stop,"  is  another;  to  which  follows  three 
pages  of  postscript,  of  a  most  personal  nature,  in  the 
same  exclamatory  style — and  then  a  poem — and  a  poem, 
save  the  mark,  in  French! 

Probably  no  eyes  but  ours  have  ever  seen  this;  but, 
as  an  extenuating  circumstance  to  a  later  indiscretion 
of  my  own,  and  because  it  paints  the  man  and  his  mood 
at  the  time,  I  give  here  his  experiment  in  a  difficult 
metre  and  a  foreign  tongue. 

Longtemps  j'ai  lutte  contre  le  destin; 
Croyant  que  la  vie  etait  un  festin; 
Que,  si  le  Bonheur  se  faisait  attendre, 
II  serait  plus  doux  s'il  venait  surprendre, 
Comme  un  beau  dessert,  la  fin  du  repas. 
Mais  a  chaque  plat;   quand  on  ne  voit  pas 
Autre  mets  offert  que  I'eau  et  le  \'ide; 
On  finit  par  se  croire  chez  le  Barmecide, 
Berne  du  Vizir;   le  Vizir  c'est  Dieu; 
Se  moquant  de  nous  dans  I'azur  des  cieux! 
Espdrons  toujours;   coupons  dans  la  farce; 
Peut-etre  que  Dieu  pcnse  a  ses  comparses, 


290       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


Et  comme  le  Vizir,  n'est  pas  mechant, 
Mais  tout  bonnement  un  mauvais  plaisant, 
Qui,  pour  les  acteurs  dans  ce  triste  monde, 
Prepare  un  souper  ou  la  joie  abonde. 

Much  later  I  learned  in  detail  of  trials,  which,  at  the 
time,  seemed  so  much  the  natural  lot  of  one  who  balks 
at  the  harness  in  which  the  majority  of  mankind  amble 
contentedly,  and  seeks  the  freedom  of  the  field  of  art, 
that  I  merely  thought  it  characteristic  that  my  friend 
should  "put  in  a  day"  wrestling  with  the  intricacies  of 
French  verse,  while  the  colour  was  drying  on  his 
palette,  despite  his  further  avowal:  "I  find  that  being 
hard  up  in  London  is  not  attended  with  amusement  as 
it  often  is  in  Paris." 

He  lacked,  unfortunately,  the  resource  of  his  cousin, 
inasmuch  as  he  had  no  father  living,  whose  purse  could 
come  to  his  rescue  when  all  else  failed.  "I  fall  always 
on  my  feet,  but  I  am  constrained  to  add  that  the  best 
part  of  my  legs  seems  to  be  my  father,"  was  an  expres- 
sion of  gratitude  on  the  part  of  Louis;  but  Bob  had  no 
such  support  and  had  only  his  brush  to  look  to.  Epi- 
sodes of  this  struggle  were  told  me  in  after-time.  One 
such  experience  was  with  an  amateur  who  desired  to 
acquire  "a  few  chaste  bedroom  pictures."  "What 
would  you  call  a  *chaste'  landscape.''"  inquired  my 
friend;  "something  cool  and  gray,  I  suppose,"  he  con- 
tinued, answering  his  own  query,  "but  mine  were 
mostly  fiery  sunsets!" 

In  the  comprehensive  volumes  of  the  "Letters  of 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,"  edited  by  Sidney  Colvin, 
generous  use  has  been  made  of  the  letters  addressed 
to  me  and,  as  they  may  be  read  there,  I   shall  quote 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  291 

only  from  those  not  previously  published,  except  a 
few  words  now  and  then  necessary  for  the  clarity  of 
my  narration. 

From  one  of  these,  inspiring  to  receive  by  one  en- 
gaged, like  the  writer,  in  the  chase  of  minor  carnivora, 
I  extract  these  lines.  "...  I  am  now  a  person  with 
an  established  ill-health — a  wife — a  dog  possessed  with 
an  evil,  a  Gadarrean  spirit — a  chalet  on  a  hill,  looking 
out  over  the  Mediterranean — a  certain  reputation — and 
very  obscure  finances.  Otherwise,  very  much  the  same, 
I  guess;  and  were  a  bottle  of  Fleury  a  thing  to  be  ob- 
tained, capable  of  developing  theories  along  with  a  fit 
spirit  even  as  of  yore.  Yet  I  now  draw  near  to  the 
middle  ages;  near  three  years  ago  that  fatal  Thirty 
struck;  and  yet  the  great  work  is  not  yet  done — not 
yet  even  conceived.  But  so,  as  one  goes  on,  the  wood 
seems  to  thicken,  the  footpath  to  narrow,  and  the  House 
Beautiful  on  the  hill's  summit  to  draw  further  and 
further  away.  We  learn  indeed  to  use  our  means;  but 
only  to  learn,  along  with  it,  the  paralyzing  knowledge 
that  these  means  are  only  applicable  to  two  or  three 
poor  commonplace  motives.  Eight  years  ago,  if  I 
could  have  slung  ink  as  I  can  now,  I  should  have 
thought  myself  well  on  the  road  after  Shakespeare;  and 
now — I  find  I  have  only  got  a  pair  of  walking  shoes  and 
not  yet  begun  to  travel.  And  art  is  still  away  there  on 
the  mountain  summit.  But  I  need  not  continue;  for, 
of  course,  this  is  your  story  just  as  much  as  it  is  mine; 
and,  strange  to  think,  it  was  Shakespeare's,  too,  and 
Beethoven's,  and  Phidias'.  It  is  a  blessed  thing  that, 
in  this  forest  of  art,  we  can  pursue  our  woodlice  and 
sparrows,   and  not  catch   them,   with   almost   the   same 


292      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


fervour  of  exhilaration   as  that  with   which  Sophocles 
hunted  and  brought  down  the  Mastodon.    ..." 

Prostrating  illness  or  impending  death  never  caused 
the  brave  spirit  of  Louis  Stevenson  to  quail,  but  he  had 
from  the  first,  by  a  strange  contradiction,  a  childish 
terror  of  growing  old.  "The  gods  love  me  not,"  he 
complained  but  a  few  weeks  before  he  was  struck  down 
in  mid-career  at  the  threshold  of  his  greatest  work; 
and  there  are  multiplied  instances  of  his  dread  of  the 
benign  malady  to  which,  with  its  compensatory  matur- 
ity of  expression,  the  world  owes  some  of  its  greatest 
work  in  art  and  letters.  Of  course,  it  was  no  apprehen- 
sion of  physical  discomfort  (or  worse)  that  thus  alarmed 
him,  but  the  distrust  of  failing  power,  where,  in  one  in- 
stance, the  spectre  of  Scott  stood  menacingly  before  his 
vision.  And,  like  the  true  artist,  while  his  moods  pos- 
sessed him,  they  varied,  and  we  find  him,  at  periods 
close  together,  adjuring  Edmund  Gosse:  "Treasure 
your  strength,  and  may  you  never  learn  by  experience 
the  profound  ennui  and  irritation  of  the  shelved  artist. 
For  then  what  is  life.?"  and  shortly  after,  drawing  for 
Henley  a  picture  of  "this  pleasant  middle  age  into 
whose  port  we  are  steering." 

A  casual  reference  to  Bob's  entrance  into  the  field  of 
criticism  had  evidently  brought  from  me  some  flippant 
rejoinder,  that  would  read  strangely  even  to  me  now- 
adays, with  all  these  printed  pages  chargeable  to  my 
own  temporary  withdrawal  from  the  work  for  which  I 
was  trained;  to  say  nothing  of  the  many  desultory 
papers  I  have  written  since  the  day  when  R.  L.  S. 
(without  so  much  as  asking  by  your  leave)  cast  me 
floundering  in  the  sea  of  ink.     I  had — and  despite  the 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  293 

inconsistency  of  my  practice  still  retain  in  a  limited 
sense — the  common  prejudice  of  my  profession  against 
the  painter  who  writes.  This  antipathy  has  a  basis  of 
reason  when  the  practising  painter  treats  of  his  con- 
temporary practitioners  in  print,  for  there  ensues  a 
violation  of  the  principles  of  fair  play,  as  they  are 
roughly  defined  in  the  ethics  of  our  craft,  when  one 
artist  publicly  criticises  another,  who,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  is  voiceless.  This  exercise  of  his  pen,  the 
present  writer  may  be  permitted  to  remark  parenthetic- 
ally, he  has  avoided,  only  considering  his  contem- 
poraries in  one  or  two  instances,  and  then  only  for  the 
purpose  of  unstinted  praise. 

This  inimical  attitude,  which  is  widespread  among 
the  members  of  our  craft  in  this  country,  is  otherwise 
ordered  in  France,  where  many  of  the  greatest  artists 
have  written,  without  loss  of  prestige  in  their  proper 
art,  and  where  one  at  least,  Eugene  Fromentin,  in  his 
"Maitres  d'Autrefois,"  has  given  the  world  a  book 
which  could  only  have  been  written  by  a  painter;  and 
which  is  not  only,  in  its  lucid  and  chastened  diction,  a 
masterpiece  of  literature,  but  is  also  the  clearest  ex- 
position of  the  technical  and  expressional  qualities  of  the 
great  masters  of  our  art  that  the  world  has  yet  known. 

All  this  should  have  been  in  my  mind  when  I  made 
some  thoughtless  reference  to  Bob's  supposed  "deser- 
tion of  the  cause,"  which  brought  me  from  Louis  this 
serious  remonstrance: 

"Bob  has  just  been  staying  with  me  in  the  character 
of  sick-nurse  while  my  wife  was  away.  When  I  write 
I  will  upbraid  him  for  his  silence.     You  know,  I  sup- 


294      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

pose,  that  he  is  married  and  a  father  ?  highly  uxorious 
and  the  most  devoted  parent;  more  improved  than  any 
man  I  ever  knew  or  read  of;  but,  alas!  deadly  im- 
pecunious. Hence  this  burst  into  art  criticism;  his 
poverty  but  not  his  v^ill  consented,  and  as  the  step  is 
archi-necessary,  and  not  grateful  to  the  poor  soul,  I 
shall  take  the  liberty  of  suppressing  your  message  anent 
his  consistency.  We  really  do  not  think  he  v^all  ever 
make  anything  of  painting;  and  we  are  all  in  a  plot, 
sugaring  him  off  on  literature  with  my  Jesuitical  pre- 
tensions. If  you  wish  to  help,  and  you  should  ever  see 
any  merit  in  one  of  his  papers  that  you  could  in  con- 
science approve  of,  make  him  a  complimentary  letter. 
Of  course,  he  is  yet  awkward  at  the  trade;  has  no 
facture;  is  bitterly  conscious  of  it;  hates  the  slavery  of 
writing;  hates  to  give  up  the  time  when  he  should 
paint;  but  the  one  brings  in  something,  the  other  nix; 
and  I  think  it  a  good  work  to  encourage  him  on.  A 
little  while  ago  Henley  and  I  remarked  about  Bob, 
'how  strange  it  was  that  the  cleverest  man  we  knew 
should  be  starving.'  That  was  where  it  was.  So 
please  avoid  chaff  on  that  same  subject." 

Needless  to  say  that  "chaff"  was  avoided  after  that; 
and  the  occasion  soon  permitting,  and  my  conscience 
approving  highly  of  even  his  earliest  articles,  I  was 
able  to  join  in  the  "conspiracy"  which  had,  as  an  ulti- 
mate result,  a  work  of  almost  equal  merit,  if  of  less 
volume,  to  that  of  Fromentin;  for  I  know  that  I  have 
the  concurrence  of  far  abler  judgment  than  mine  in 
giving  the  "Art  of  Velasquez"  a  high  place  in  con- 
temporary criticism  of  art. 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  295 


This  was  not  to  be  at  once,  however,  and  in  the 
eadier  days  the  hatred  of  the  imposed  metier  weighed 
heavily  upon  Bob;  and  later  Henley  described,  Bob 
confirming  his  friend's  recital,  somewhat  ruefully,  the 
drastic  measures  taken  to  yoke  his  errant  spirit  to  the 
plough.  Like  a  school-boy,  he  was  given  a  task  and 
at  his  own  request,  locked  up  in  a  room,  until  he  had 
accomplished  the  required  amount  of  copy.  He  would 
demand  release  from  time  to  time,  but  the  conspirators 
were  firm,  and,  despite  all  pleading  that  what  was 
asked  from  him  was  beyond  the  power  of  man,  were 
deaf  to  all  entreaty  until  the  prisoner  signified  that  the 
revolting  task  was  done;  when,  the  door  opened,  he 
would  be  seen  surrounded  by  a  litter  of  spoiled  sheets 
and  a  few  blotted  pages,  which  the  critical  jailers  read 
and  marked  with  their  approval. 

This  jack  of  all  arts  was  master  in  several,  and  some 
of  his  first  work  was  in  the  service  of  the  "Saturday 
Review,"  as  musical  critic.  His  capacity  for  this  re- 
sponsible function  shows  the  innate  modesty  of  the 
man;  for  until  that  time,  with  all  our  intimacy,  I 
ignored  completely  that  he  knew  aught  of  music. 
Later,  one  night  in  London,  where  in  company  with 
some  professional  musicians,  I  heard  his  brilliant  flow 
of  talk,  interspersed  with  the  use  of  the  technical  terms 
and  the  weighing  of  the  nice  distinctions  of  an  art  un- 
familiar to  me,  but  listened  to  with  evident  approval  by 
his  more  savant  auditors,  I  marvelled  at  his  various 
gifts. 

Not  from  these  two  alone  did  trans-Atlantic  messages 
come;  messages  of  cheer,  for  until  the  end  of  my 
novitiate  there  was  little  of  import  in  my  work,  or  in 


296       A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

my  circumstances,  that  was  cheerful;  nothing  but  the 
steady  and  persistent  faith  in  the  future  of  our  art, 
which  was  shown  in  a  thousand  small  instances,  none 
of  them  important,  but  all  hope-inspiring;  and,  since 
I  do  not  wish  to  exaggerate  the  trials  that  befell  me, 
the  presence  of  friends  about  me  here,  and  their  measure 
of  confidence  in  my  future,  made  me  support  the  un- 
certainties of  my  present  with  at  least  outward  cheer- 
fulness and  courage. 

But  I  knew  that  the  "pleasant  actuality"  enjoyed  by 
my  friends  in  Europe  was  greater  than  that  of  living 
under  what  Mr.  Howells,  with  patient  humour,  recog- 
nizes as  our  "ideal  conditions"  here;  and  the  vicarious 
pleasure  which  their  letters  gave  was  such  that  I  regret 
the  carelessness  that  allowed  so  many  of  them  to  disap- 
pear. It  was  quite  by  chance,  and  thanks  to  another's 
sense  of  order,  that  those  which  have  escaped  loss  have 
been  preserved,  leaving  lapses  that  memory  regrets  but 
cannot  replenish. 

From  Adrien  Gaudez  I  learned  to  my  joy  that  he  was 
happily  married,  and  that  success  had  knocked  at  his 
door — the  door  of  a  large  and  commodious  studio  with 
a  miniature  logement  attached — where  I  was  to  find  him 
a  few  years  later,  and  which,  later  still,  I  saw  expanded 
into  a  handsome  house  set  in  a  garden,  in  that  pleasant 
suburb  of  Paris — Neuilly.  Theodore  Robinson  also 
sent  information  of  the  various  activities  of  artistic 
Paris;  but  of  all  these,  the  most  potential  as  a  means 
of  keeping  in  touch  with  what  I  have  always  been 
pleased  to  consider  my  second  patrie,  was  a  truly  re- 
markable correspondence  which,  begun  immediately 
after  my  first  return  from  France,  has  never  ceased. 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  297 

My  constant  correspondent  is  one  of  my  earliest  friends 
in  Paris,  one  whose  sustained  friendship  has  counted 
for  much  in  my  Hfe,  and  whose  name  at  least,  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  its  evocation,  I  write  here;  though  as 
we  both  hope,  in  the  intervals  of  our  meetings,  to 
continue  our  interminable  communications  with  each 
other,  the  proscription,  which  I  have  so  often  obeyed 
in  these  pages,  forbids  mention  here  of  more  than  the 
name  of  Maurice  Boutet  de  Monvel.  I  call  our  cor- 
respondence remarkable,  as  it  certainly  has  been  in 
quantity  and  continuance;  for  I  believe  it  rare  that 
two  busy  men  should  for  more  than  a  generation  write 
voluminously  to  each  other,  when  both  and  either  of 
them  are  markedly  deficient  in  the  true  spirit  of  regular 
correspondence;  so  that  months  often  procrastinatingly 
elapse  before  a  letter  receives  its  answer. 

These  letters  came  constantly,  however  intermit- 
tently, in  those  days  as — Dieu  merci! — they  still  con- 
tinue to  come;  and  created  for  the  New  Yorker,  busily 
engaged  in  his  own  unimportant  artistic  activities,  and 
to  some  degree  in  those  of  more  importance  in  the 
general  art  life  of  our  city,  a  second  though  factitious 
Parisian  existence. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  period  before  my  return  to 
Paris  there  resulted  from  my  association  with  Stevenson 
a  plan  for  a  voyage  down  the  Rhone,  to  be  undertaken 
in  the  interests  of  the  "Century  Magazine"  by  Louis 
and  myself,  he  as  the  scribe  and  I  as  the  artist  of  the 
expedition.  This  plan  was  at  once  communicated  to 
my  friend,  who  received  it  with  enthusiasm.  "This  is 
a  most  enchanting  picture,"  he  wrote,  and  then,  con- 
strained by  his  physical  condition  ("I  write  this  from 


298      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

bed,  snow  pouring  without,  and  no  circumstance  of 
pleasure  except  your  letter")  follows  an  enumeration 
of  the  conditions  of  material  safety  and  comfort  under 
which  alone  he  would  dare  confront  the  very  possible 
dangers  of  the  trip,  finishing  his  list  with:  "  If  you  are 
very  nervous,  you  must  recollect  a  bad  hemorrhage  is 
always  on  the  cards,  with  the  concomitants  of  anxiety 
and  horror  for  those  who  are  beside  me.  Do  you 
blench  ?  If  so,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  If  you  are 
still  unafraid,  and  the  money  were  forthcoming,  I  be- 
lieve the  trip  might  do  me  good,  and  I  feel  sure  thsx 
working  together,  we  might  produce  a  fine  book.  The 
Rhone  is  the  River  of  Angels.  I  adore  it;  I  have  adored 
it  since  I  was  twelve  and  first  saw  it  from  the  train." 
I  did  not  blench;  and  then  ensued  a  further  interchange 
of  letters  which  rendered  the  prospect  more  imminent. 
Stevenson  proposed  that  P.  G.  Hamerton  should  join 
us,  as  he  had  much  practical  knowledge  in  the  naviga- 
tion of  small  vessels  on  the  French  rivers,  and  could 
supplement  Stevenson's  text  by  his  greater  knowledge 
of  the  country. 

While  this  arrangement  did  not  appear  to  me  prac- 
ticable from  a  literary  point  of  yiew,  I  agreed  that 
Hamerton's  knowledge  of  the  river  would  facilitate  our 
voyage,  and  everything  seemed  most  promising — when 
the  ever-present  menace  that  hovered  over  Stevenson 
showed  its  ugly  face,  and  our  voyage  on  the  River  of 
Angels  was  relegated  to  the  realm  of  unrealized  dreams. 

As  may  have  been  gathered  by  passing  references, 
the  success  of  the  narrator  had  not  been  marked.  After 
the  year  with  Mr.  La  Farge  no  further  labour  in  the 
decorative  field  was  found,  and  I  had  fallen  back  upon 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  299 

illustration  as  a  chief  dependence;  and  there,  though 
I  managed  to  earn  a  living  wage,  the  character  of  work 
which  I  found  to  do  or  that  was  alone  entrusted  to  me 
was  either  not  adapted  to  my  capacity  or,  as  was  more 
likely,  my  capacity  was  not  sufficiently  pliable  to  bend 
to  its  requirements.  At  any  rate  I  had  sunk  from  the 
state  of  a  youth  of  promise — as  I  had  been  considered 
to  be  upon  my  return  home,  if  the  flattering  encomiums 
of  the  press  at  that  time  can  be  believed — to  that  of  a 
hack-illustrator,  to  whom  is  dealt  out  from  the  art 
departments  of  the  various  illustrated  periodicals  the 
crumbs  from  the  table,  where  the  choice  morsels  have 
been  shared  among  more  favoured  guests. 

I  was  not  unconscious  of  this;  but  in  retrospect,  and 
for  the  guidance  of  those  who  struggle  in  the  mesh  of 
circumstance  to-day,  I  am  equally  conscious  that  I 
never  ceased  to  have  a  certain  confidence  in  my 
ability  to  do  better  than  my  utmost  endeavour  enabled 
me  to  do  in  the  only  class  of  work  that  came  to  me.  A 
certain  number  of  designs  for  stained  glass  seemed  to 
prove  this,  and  to  rouse  a  mild  enthusiasm  on  the  part 
of  the  few  comrades  who  still  honoured  me  by  their 
confidence.  Of  painting  proper,  to  which  I  had  con- 
secrated my  five  years  of  study  abroad,  I  produced  but 
little;  a  hastily  executed  picture  for  the  annual  exhibi- 
tion of  the  Society  each  year  comprising  all  that  I  could 
accomplish  in  the  continuous,  half-hearted  production 
of  illustration.  At  intervals  I  besieged  the  architects  of 
my  acquaintance  with  projects  of  decoration;  but  it 
was  to  be  much  later — twelve  years  after  my  experience 
with  Mr.  La  Farge — before  I  was  to  be  so  fortunate 
as  to  execute  and  sign  a  decorative  work  of  my  own. 


300      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

From  this  not  particularly  hilarious  condition  of 
affairs  kind  Fate  provided  an  outlet,  which  first  came 
in  the  shape  of  an  order  for  a  quite  ordinary  illustrative 
drawing,  given  by  an  old  established  publishing  house 
of  Philadelphia.  This  firm  had  in  preparation  an 
illustrated  edition  of  a  poem  of  Buchanan  Reid's,  and 
the  drawing  that  I  rnade  had  the  good  fortune  to  please 
the  publisher;  sufficiently  for  him  to  offer  me  the  op- 
portunity of  making  a  book  for  the  following  year,  to 
be  illustrated  entirely  by  my  drawings.  This  proposi- 
tion I  was  glad  to  accept;  but,  when  I  made  known  that 
"Lamia"  by  John  Keats  was  my  choice  of  a  poem  for 
illustration,  and  when,  upon  this  choice  not  meeting 
with  favour,  I  obstinately  refused  to  consider  any  other, 
the  whole  project  was  given  up. 

This  was  a  severe  disappointment,  for  the  choice  had 
been  dictated  by  preference  for  this  particular  poem 
among  Keats'  works,  as  one  which  I  was  confident 
would  afford  me  opportunities  for  imaginative  work, 
of  the  kind  for  which  I  had  long  and  in  vain  besought 
publishers.  I  bore  my  disappointment  with  what 
grace  I  could,  and  turned  to  other  work;  but  I  had 
neglected  to  count  upon  a  friend  at  court,  one  who  by 
long  service  in  the  publishing  house  had  acquired  the 
respect  and  confidence  of  his  employers;  and  who — 
though  I  had  met  him  but  once— had  formed  so  favour- 
able an  opinion  of  my  talent,  that  his  representation 
finally  reversed  the  verdict  delivered  against  "Lamia," 
with  the  result  that  he  reappeared  in  my  studio  soon 
after,  with  an  authorization  to  proceed  with  the  project 
I  had  outlined. 

The  project  grew;    for  though  the  original  intention 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  301 

on  the  part  of  the  pubhshers  was  to  produce  a  small 
octavo  volume  similar  to  others  which  at  that  time,  in 
common  with  other  publishing  houses,  they  issued  at 
Christmas  time,  to  serve  as  holiday  gifts  at  a  small 
price,  the  work  was  no  sooner  under  way  than  ambition 
on  the  part  of  the  artist  expanded  the  prospective 
octavo  to  the  dimensions  of  a  generous  folio,  with 
specially  made  paper,  photo-gelatine  reproduction  of 
the  drawings,  and  all  the  features  of  a  handsome  and 
costly  book.  Here  Albert  Coleman — for  the  name  of 
one  to  whom  I  owe  so  much  should  figure  here — did 
yeoman  service,  chiefly  in  my  interest  as  it  first  seemed, 
though,  as  the  event  proved,  the  interest  of  his  em- 
ployers was  equally  well  served. 

It  was  but  natural  that  this  old  and  honourable  house 
should  show  a  certain  conservatism  at  the  outset  of  an 
enterprise  which  comported  quite  as  much  risk  of  loss 
as  of  artistic  novelty,  for  my  projected  book  was  quite 
unlike  any  other  that  had  issued  from  an  American 
publishing  house,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Ved- 
der's  monumental  "Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam."  It 
is,  however,  a  pleasant  personal  recollection  to  recall 
the  gradual  contagion  of  enthusiasm  which,  from 
Albert  Coleman's  arguments,  largely  inspired  by  my 
belief  that  I  "could  make  good,"  spread  to  the  powers 
above,  so  that  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
work  I  felt  the  unquestioning  confidence  of  my  pub- 
lishers as  a  welcome,  though  theretofore  unusual,  in- 
centive to  do  my  best.  Other  indications  of  presumable 
success  attended  the  production  of  the  forty  drawings, 
which  provide  a  pictorial  accompaniment,  rather  than 
definitely  illustrate,  from  the  author's  probable  point  of 


302      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


view,  Keats'  "  Lamia."  The  drawings  begun  in  March 
were  finished  in  October,  and  during  that  period  many 
who  had  forgotten  the  path  to  my  studio  returned  to 
cheer  me  on  my  way.  My  appreciation  of  their  en- 
couragement far  outweighed  any  sum  of  resentment 
that  I  might  have  felt  for  their  previous  cessation  of 
interest,  for  none  had  been  more  conscious  of  the 
obstructed  path  than  he  who  had  all  but  fallen  by  the 
way. 

There  were  others,  however,  from  whom  encourage- 
ment had  been  the  better  part  of  life  through  all  this 
time,  and  first  of  these  was  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens, 
who,  never  chary  of  forceful  and  direct  blame  for  the 
demerits  of  a  comrade's  work,  was  equally  forceful  and 
enthusiastic  where  his  critical  judgment  called  for 
praise.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  privileges  of  an  artist's 
life  to  be  sustained  by  his  comrades;  and  I  look  back 
on  that  toilsome  summer,  when  I  literally  worked  all 
day  and  a  good  portion  of  the  night,  and  listen  in  retro- 
spect to  the  voices  of  counsel  and  approval  that  tided 
me  over  my  task.  The  book  was  finally  done;  from 
cover  design,  through  type  and  margin,  the  pages  of  text 
interspersed  with  my  designs,  to  the  colophon  at  the 
end,  entirely  my  own;  the  best  that  I  could  do  with  a 
congenial  subject;  and  the  critical  verdict  was  in  my 
favour. 

It  brought  to  my  publishers  a  sufficiently  substantial 
reward  for  the  unfailing  support  that  they  had  accorded 
to  my  hazardous  venture;  to  my  friend  Albert  Coleman 
a  welcome  vindication  of  his  confidence  in  an  untried 
man — a  confidence  for  which  my  gratitude  has  outlasted 
the  span  of  his  life;    and  to  me  an  opportunity  to  do 


TRANS-ATLANTIC  MESSAGES  303 

more  and  better  work.  My  first  opportunity  came  at 
once  by  the  order  for  another  illustrated  book — "The 
Odes  and  Sonnets  of  John  Keats" — and  this  upon 
terms  that  permitted  the  execution  of  a  long-deferred 
project  for  a  return  to  Europe. 


XXV 

PARIS  REVISITED 

IF  "the  finest  action  is  the  better  for  a  piece  of 
purple,"  to  quote  from  my  favourite  author,  even 
so  commonplace  an  event  as  my  return  to  Paris, 
after  eight  years  of  absence,  was  none  the  vv^orse  for 
an  accompaniment  that  vv^as  somew^hat  unusual.  I 
approached  the  good  city,  as  I  had  left  it,  by  the  route 
of  Normandy.  Debarking  at  Havre,  the  first  week 
had  been  consecrated  to  the  devoirs  de  la  famille;  but 
as  I  had  brought  with  me  some  unfinished  work,  for 
whose  completion  my  publisher  at  home  was  waiting, 
I  left  my  wife  to  finish  her  visit  at  her  parents'  house  in 
Caen,  and  came  alone  to  Paris,  where  I  could  find 
facilities  for  my  work.  Theodore  Robinson  awaited 
me  at  the  St.  Lazare  Station,  and  almost  his  first  words 
were  an  admonition  to  hasten  to  place  my  luggage  at 
a  small  hotel  on  Montmarte  where  he  was  stopping, 
for  we  were  expected  to  dine  with  some  friends  of  his, 
in  the  country  outside  of  Paris.  Seated  once  more  in 
the  familiar  open  carriage  of  Paris  we  bowled  across 
the  city,  the  well-remembered  streets  smiling  a  welcome 
as  I  passed,  to  the  Place  St.  Germain  des  Pres.  Here 
we  dismissed  the  cab,  and,  seated  on  the  roof  of  a 
tramway  bound  for  Fontenay  aux  Roses — the  very 
name  seemed  appropriate  that  roseate  spring  evening 
— we  passed  through  a  quarter  where  every  street  re- 
called   some   memory,    out    beyond    the    fortifications, 

304 


PARIS   REVISITED  305 


along  the  route  to  Chatillon,  and  finally  arrived  at  the 
end  of  the  tramway  line.  From  Fontenay  we  proceeded 
on  foot  across  fields,  and  as  the  twilight  had  now  come, 
the  unpretending  region  of  market  gardens  and  modest 
habitations  took  on  a  glamour  which  it  might  have 
lacked  by  day  or  under  other  circumstances.  Our  final 
destination,  indeed,  was  a  place  which  in  former  days 
I  had  studiously  avoided,  as  a  resort  of  shop-keeping 
youth,  with  all  the  false  picturesqueness  dear  to  holiday 
merry-makers.  It  was  called  Robinson,  from  its  arti- 
ficed  resemblance  to  Crusoe's  island;  and  its  chief 
attractions  to  its  unsophisticated  frequenters  were  the 
platforms  built  among  the  branches  of  the  trees  and  set 
with  tables,  where  they  dined. 

From  the  time  of  Paul  de  Kock  the  place  had  been 
popular,  and  on  Sundays  a  rabble  of  Parisians  of  the 
shop-keeping  order  enjoyed  themselves  after  their 
fashion;  but  French  art  students,  among  whom  my  lot 
had  been  cast,  shunned  its  precincts.  I  learned  from 
Theodore  Robinson,  however,  that  his  friends  who 
awaited  us  were  all  Americans  and,  in  the  joy  of  taking 
up  the  lines  of  life  where  I  had  left  them  so  long  before, 
I  was  in  no  mood  to  be  critical.  The  place  is  quiet 
enough  on  other  than  holidays  and,  when  we  made  our 
appearance,  the  little  company  of  six  or  eight,  who  were 
already  gathered  for  the  feast,  gave  the  stranger  a 
cordial  reception.  We  had  a  merry  evening  in  our 
tree;  following  the  usual  programme,  the  waiter  sta- 
tioned on  the  platform  hauling  from  below,  in  a  basket 
attached  by  a  cord,  the  various  services  of  an  excellent 
dinner.  The  coloured  lanterns  in  the  boughs  above  us 
lit  our  table;    the  company  was  congenial;    the  new- 


306      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

comer  answered  many  questions  about  men  and  things 
in  New  York,  and  asked  as  many  concerning  Paris; 
and  altogether  the  contrast  from  the  atmosphere  of 
unflagging  effort  I  had  left  in  Washington  Square  to 
the  holiday  air  that  circulated  through  the  branches  at 
Robinson  was  most  welcome.  We  outstayed  the  hour 
of  all  possible  trains  back  to  Paris,  and  none  of  us 
cared  to  cross  the  fields  back  to  Fontenay  to  take  the 
tramway,  and  much  less  to  attempt  the  longer  journey 
on  foot  back  to  the  city.  We  found,  however,  that  we 
could  procure  a  large  market  wagon,  in  which  chairs 
were  placed;  and  in  this  we  journeyed  homeward, 
making  night  melodious,  or  the  contrary — by  a  survival 
of  student  customs  which  I  noted  with  pleasure — with 
the  songs  we  sung  by  the  way.  We  entered  Paris  by 
the  porte  de  Chatillon  and,  following  the  Avenue 
d'Orleans,  past  the  lion  of  Belfort,  which  commemorates 
the  unvanquished  stronghold  at  the  gate  of  the  lost 
Alsace,  we  came  out  on  the  place  de  I'Observatoire. 

Here  before  us  glared  the  lights  of  the  Bal  BuUier, 
and  the  music  of  the  dances  was  wafted  over  the  wall 
of  its  garden.  Thoughts  of  the  end  of  my  first  day  with 
Louis  Stevenson  came  back  to  me,  and  I  proposed  that 
we  should  dismiss  our  chariot  and  enter  the  ball. 

Upon  occasions  my  student  friends  and  I  had  found 
the  Bullier  amusing — though  far  more  rarely  than  the 
desperate  scalawag  who  figures  the  traditional  student 
to  the  popular  mind  should  have  done  to  fulfil  the  role 
thus  imposed  upon  him;  but  this  evening  the  riotous 
scene  struck  me  as  being  tawdry  and  the  merry-making 
made  to  order.  I  had  entered,  to  be  sure,  as  a  mere 
spectator,  where  in  other  days  I  had  been  to  a  mild 


PARIS   REVISITED  307 


extent  an  actor  in  the  comedy;  but  if  the  rouge  and 
tinsel  had  been  less  perceptible  then,  at  close  range, 
than  it  was  now  glaringly  visible,  I  must  have  been 
strangely  blinded.  It  was  true  that  I  had  suffered  the 
fatigues  of  a  day-long  journey,  followed  by  an  evening 
where  the  pleasures  were  a  trifle  exacting;  and  then — 
the  thought  came  suddenly — for  me,  too,  the  "fatal 
Thirty"  had  struck  some  three  years  before!  Finally, 
postponing  the  solution  of  this  important  social-psycho- 
logic problem  to  a  more  propitious  moment,  my  com- 
panions plainly  yawning,  we  left  the  ball,  went  out  into 
the  clear  night — and  so  to  bed. 

The  next  day  before  noon  I  was  in  temporary  pos- 
session of  a  studio  in  the  Montparnasse  quarter,  whose 
usual  occupant  was  in  the  country,  and  was  at  work 
upon  the  unfinished  drawing  which  I  had  brought  with 
me.  There  are  periods  in  the  artist's  work  which 
demand  the  most  tense  application  of  mind  and  hand, 
and  there  are  other  phases  of  its  progression  when  it 
becomes  semi-mechanical,  and  the  mind  may  follow 
any  of  the  chance  by-paths  of  reflection.  It  was  in  this 
latter  mood  that  my  mind  went  back  to  the  problem  of 
the  evening  before,  and  I  realized  that,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  fairly  long  experience  of  the  city,  I  had  seen 
the  side  of  Paris  which  the  average  stranger  sees  and 
somewhat  with  the  eyes  of  the  tourist.  This  during 
the  summer  that  followed  and  on  subsequent  visits  has 
become  more  plainly  visible,  and  I  thank  the  Fates  for 
the  good  fortune  to  have  first  known  Paris  under  an- 
other— and  its  truer — aspect. 

With  all  allowances  for  the  common  change  in  the 
point  of  view  that  comes  with  middle-age,  no  one  who 


308       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

knew  Paris  thirty  years  ago  will  deny  that,  in  the 
flaunting  outward  aspect  of  certain  alleged  "attrac- 
tions," the  capital,  realizing  their  market  value,  and 
with  typical  thriftiness  desiring  to  add  to  the  hoard  in 
the  long  stocking,  has  become  far  more  sophisticated 
than  in  the  earlier  time.  The  beast  with  the  raucous 
voice,  whispering  in  your  ^ar,  in  a  tongue  too  fluently 
your  own  for  your  disgust  to  disown  him  as  a  possible 
compatriot,  who  encumbers  the  boulevards  with  his 
suggestive  offer  to  "show  you  Paris,"  may  have  existed 
then,  but  he  was  encountered  less  frequently.  Books 
of  a  character  that  in  my  boyhood  enjoyed  only  a 
restricted  circulation  in  select  schools,  not  "impudently 
French,"  but  printed  in  English,  for  the  probable  uses 
of  some  other  nationality  than  that  of  native  Parisians, 
now  openly  proclaim  their  impudicity  in  the  shop- 
windows  along  the  rue  de  Rivoli  where  decency 
reigned  thirty  years  ago.  Autre  temps,  autre  mceurs,  less 
sufficiently  explains  this  patent  appeal  than  the  influx 
of  foreign  visitors  to  Paris,  which  has  increased  annually 
for  the  past  thirty  years.  I  wonder  if  other  foreigners, 
if  Germans,  Italians,  Russians,  or  Japanese,  find 
these  dainty  dishes,  sizzling  hot,  offered  for  their 
delectation  on  their  arrival  in  the  beautiful  city;  or 
whether  they  are  reserved  for  those  who  speak  the 
English  tongue  .?  Like  most  other  commodities,  they 
are  doubtless  governed  by  the  law  of  demand  and 
supply,  and  here — though  no  word  of  excuse  is  offered 
for  the  purveyor — have  we  not  a  certain  responsibility 
to  bear  ?  What  does  the  very  name  of  Paris  mean  to 
the  man  on  the  street,  nay,  to  the  man  in  our  clubs,  to 
the  larger  portion  of  our  press,  and — more's  the  pity — 


PARIS   REVISITED  309 

to  so  many  of  our  "plain  people,"  instructed  by  clergy, 
who  so  thoughtlessly  couple  its  name  with  those  of  the 
Biblical  cities  of  corruption  ?  This  is  not  the  city  where 
our  "good  Americans  go  when  they  die,"  but  rather  one 
sought  by  those  of  another  temper  who,  living,  comport 
themselves  there  as  their  hypocrisy,  and  certain  so- 
cieties for  the  suppression  of  such  as  they,  do  not  per- 
mit them  to  behave  at  home. 

This  is  not  the  Paris  that  its  true  lovers  know;  the 
Paris  that  teaches  and  writes,  that  paints  and  carves — 
to  whom  no  exercise  of  the  intellect  is  unknown;  whose 
twenty  thousand  students  in  the  time  of  Philip  Augustus 
marked  only  the  beginning  of  the  vast  beneficence; 
that,  searching  thoroughly,  thinking  deeply,  and  ex- 
pressing clearly,  has  never  ceased  the  diffusion  of  its 
spiritual  message  to  the  world. 

These  thoughts  have  been  expressed  a  thousand 
times,  and  are  common  to  all  those  who  have  entered 
the  inner  sanctuary  of  their  beloved  city;  but  they 
cannot  be  said  too  often  for  the  benefit  of  the  irreverent 
tourist,  in  whose  shape  I  had  unthinkingly  penetrated 
the  mazes  of  the  Bullier;  and  for  the  correction  of 
whose  perverted  point  of  view  these  reflections  came  as 
I  worked  on  my  drawing,  in  the  little  studio  in  the  rue 
des  Fourneaux,  the  days  following  my  second  arrival 
in  Paris. 

1  had  purposely  waited  the  completion  of  this  work 
and  the  arrival  of  my  wife  from  Normandy  before 
announcing  our  coming  to  my  Parisian  friends.  Even 
the  chief  of  these,  mon  vieux  Gaudez,  had  no  inkling 
of  my  return;  so,  filled  with  the  hope  of  enjoying  a 
pleasant  surprise,  I  set  out  for  Neuilly  early  one  morn- 


310      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


ing.  The  part  of  Neuilly  where  my  friend  dwelt  is  a 
portion  of  the  park  formerly  surrounding  a  chateau  of 
Louis  Philippe,  a  place  of  broad  avenues,  handsome 
trees,  and  trim  villas,  each  set  back  from  the  street  in 
pleasant  surroundings  of  shrubs  and  flowers. 

It  is  a  suburb  where  many  artists  live,  in  order  to 
profit  by  spacious  studios  and  better  light  and  air  than 
in  the  adjacent  city;  and  it  was  here  that,  ringing  at  the 
gate  on  the  Boulevard  d'Argenson,  I  expected  to  find 
my  Gaudez. 

But  the  servant  who  appeared  told  me  that  her 
master  was  absent  for  the  day,  adding,  as  she  saw  my 
disappointment,  that  Madame  was  at  home  and  I 
could  deliver  my  message  to  her.  When  I  was  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  this  lady,  whom  I  had  never  met, 
I  began  an  explanation  that  I  had  come  from  far  and 
was  an  old  friend  of  her  husband — but  she  fairly  inter- 
rupted me,  saying,  "but  then,  you  must  be  Vayni  Fill?" 
I  must  here  explain  that,  I  having  a  given  and  a  sur- 
name, one  of  which  begins  and  the  other  finishes  by 
a  letter  which  is  absent  from  the  French  alphabet,  my 
full  name  has  ever  been  a  stumbling-block  for  my 
friends  of  that  nationality.  Variations  as  great  as 
Monsieur  Houil  or  Monsieur  de  I'Eau  have  been  played 
on  their  original  themes,  and  distinctions  between  them 
were  seldom  observed;  so,  reassured  by  the  endearing 
qualification,  I  answered  that  I  was  indeed  the  friend 
whose  name  and  person  were  thus  remembered. 

After  the  expression  of  her  disappointment  that  her 
husband  was  not  at  home  to  welcome  me,  Madame 
Gaudez  gave  me  directions  by  which  I  could  find  him 
in  the  city.     Gaudez  had  been  charged  with  the  res- 


PARIS   REVISITED  311 

toration  of  the  sculpture  decorating  the  Porte  St. 
Denis,  the  famihar  monument  at  the  junction  of  the 
Boulevards  Bonne-Nouvelle  and  St.  Denis  on  the  line 
of  the  grands  boulevards  in  the  centre  of  Paris;  and 
there  I  was  assured  that  I  could  find  him  at  work  with 
his  assistants.  Making  an  appointment  for  that  even- 
ing, to  dine  at  a  restaurant  where  the  two  friends  and 
their  wives — who  were  destined  to  enter  at  once  into 
the  same  category — might  talk  over  old  pleasures  and 
plan  for  new  ones,  I  retraced  my  steps  toward  the 
scene  of  Gaudez's  labours. 

From  the  imperiale  of  the  omnibus  I  saw,  as  I  ap- 
proached it,  the  construction  in  wood  which  covered 
and  concealed  the  massive  proportions  of  the  Porte  St. 
Denis;  and  I  had  hardly  the  time  to  reflect,  as  Sterne 
had  once  before  me,  on  the  wise  ordering  of  many 
things  in  France,  by  one  of  which  the  city  fathers  of 
Paris  protect  both  the  workers  and  the  people  in  the 
streets  by  thus  substantially  screening  work  necessarily 
done  along  the  line  of  travel,  when  the  omnibus  left  me 
at  the  foot  of  the  screened  scaffolding.  Here  I  found 
a  door,  and  convincing  the  guardian  that  I  had  business 
with  M.  Gaudez,  I  climbed  the  stairs. 

Emerging  on  the  platform  at  the  top  I  saw  my  old 
friend,  his  back  turned  to  me,  engaged  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  a  gentleman  whose  high  hat  and  frock- 
coat  decorated  with  the  red  ribbon  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour  lent  him  the  air  of  an  official  personage. 
Nearer  at  hand  stood  a  young  American  friend,  then  a 
pupil  and  assistant  of  Gaudez  but  now  well  known  as 
a  sculptor,  Paul  Bartlett.  Him  I  had  seen  some  months 
before  in  New  York,  and,  though  his  surprise  was  great, 


312      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


his  recognition  was  instantaneous.  I  was  told  that  the 
gentleman  in  conversation  with  Gaudez  was  the  city 
architect,  and  so  I  waited  until  my  friend  would  be  at 
leisure.  Meanwhile  Bartlett  and  I  conversed  in  Eng- 
lish, until,  as  the  architect  left  my  friend  and  descended 
the  stairway  on  the  other  side  of  the  platform,  Gaudez 
gave  a  careless  glance  over  his  shoulder  and  then  turned 
to  his  work.  During  my  eight  years  of  absence  I  had 
greatly  changed  in  appearance,  and  that  and  the  con- 
versation in  English,  made  him  take  me  for  some 
acquaintance  of  his  pupil. 

Here  was  the  chance  for  my  surprise.  I  stepped  for- 
ward to  where  Gaudez  was  skilfully  repairing  the  nose 
of  a  colossal  lady  in  stone,  and,  in  a  tone  of  reproach, 
said:  "Is  this  the  way  you  treat  a  friend  who  returns 
after  eight  years  of  absence.?"  It  was  fortunate  that 
the  platform  at  the  height  where  we  stood  was  well 
enclosed,  for  my  friend  was  fairly  staggered  as  he 
recognized  my  voice.  Dropping  his  tools,  with  a  cry 
he  turned,  threw  his  arms  about  me,  and  how — ^when — 
where — is  it  possible — do  you  drop  from  the  moon  ? — 
Mon  Dieu,  comme  je  suis  contente  de  te  voir!  came  m 
succession  as  he  essayed  to  voice  his  surprise. 

When  some  of  the  first  questions  were  answered,  and 
partial  calm  was  restored,  Gaudez  told  me  that  others 
of  my  former  comrades  were  engaged  in  the  work  with 
him,  and  going  to  a  small  window  he  called  across  to 
the  opposite  wing  of  the  arch,  where  another  screen  and 
another  platform  had  been  built  to  allow  a  free  passage- 
way under  the  arch.  When  he  had  made  known  the 
astounding  news  of  my  return,  Osbach  and  Steiner,  two 
former  members  of  our  "  bande,"  lost  no  time  in  making 


PARIS   REVISITED  313 

their  way  to  join  us.  High  above  the  boulevard,  above 
the  noise  of  its  incessant  traffic,  in  the  presence  of  the 
allegorical  ladies  in  stone  who  commemorate  the  con- 
quest of  the  Rhine  by  Louis  XIV,  in  sixteen  hundred 
and  something,  but  who  beamed  no  less  approvingly 
on  this  foreign  invasion  in  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty- 
six,  the  newcomer  was  left  in  no  doubt  as  to  his  wel- 
come. 

An  adjournment  to  a  near-by  cafe  was  next  in  order, 
and,  without  waiting  to  change  their  working  clothes, 
my  friends  followed  me  to  the  boulevard,  where,  seated 
at  a  table  on  the  sidewalk,  after  the  manner  of  Paris, 
their  rough  attire  excited  no  comment  from  their  con- 
ventionally  dressed  neighbours,  which  is  also  after  the 
manner  of  Paris.  Here  we  had  much  to  say  to  each 
other,  but  before  long  Gaudez  exclaimed,  "  But  you 
n  jst  meet  my  wife,  and  soon."  "Yes,"  I  replied 
calmly,  "I  will.  She  is  to  dine  with  me  this  evening; 
and  with  you  and  Mrs.  Low  we  will  form  a  partie 
caree."  And  then,  enjoying  his  further  surprise,  I  told 
him  of  my  morning  pilgrimage  to  Neuilly;  for  up  to 
that  time  he  had  never  questioned  how  I  had  happened 
to  seek  him  out  on  the  top  of  his  monument,  and  the 
arrangement  I  had  made  by  which  we  were  all  to  dine 
together.  Work  was  no  more  to  be  thought  of  that 
day,  and  Gaudez  and  I  returned  to  the  hotel  where  we 
were  stopping  and,  his  spouse  soon  makmg  her  appear- 
ance, presentations  were  soon  over  and  we  sought  a 
favourite  restaurant  of  our  earlier  days.  The  dinner 
was  prolonged — how  many  such  feasts  of  friendship 
and  flows  of  talk  have  I  already  enregistered  .^-^and  the 
question  came  up  as  to  our  immediate  future  plans. 


314      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

I  was  somewhat  undecided.  The  work  I  had  to  do 
called  for  a  settled  place  of  habitation  and  a  studio  in  a 
locality  where  I  could  procure  models  in  considerable 
variety,  which  precluded  a  return  to  Barbizon  or  Mon- 
tigny;  but  on  the  other  hand  a  summer  shut  up  in  the 
city  did  not  appeal  to  me.  I  even  had  a  vague  notion 
that,  after  the  visit  to  Paris,  I  would  cross  the  Channel 
and  settle  down  in  England,  near  Stevenson,  for  the 
period  of  my  stay;  though  there  again  the  problem  of 
my  work  interposed  an  objection.  As  I  explained  my 
indecision  and  my  dislike  of  being  shut  in  by  the  four 
walls  of  a  studio,  with  no  escape  but  the  city  streets, 
the  thought  of  pleasant  tree-shaded  Neuilly  came  to  my 
mind;  and  I  asked  my  friends  if  they  knew  of  a  studio 
and  lodging  in  their  neighbourhood  which  could  be 
leased  for  the  summer. 

They  knew  of  none,  and  we  began  to  plan  a  return 
to  Barbizon  and  compute  the  cost  of  importing  models 
as  they  were  needed,  when  Gaudez  said  suddenly — 
with  a  self-condemnatory  reference  for  not  having 
thought  of  it  at  once — *' Why,  I  have  the  very  thing,  the 
Bergerat  house." 

Then  he  described  it.  The  house  of  one  of  his  in- 
timates, who  is  still  well-known  as  an  art  critic  and 
dramatist,  in  a  little  street  back  of  the  Avenue  de 
Villiers,  near  the  fortifications  in  the  quarter  of  the 
Ternes,  and  consequently  not  far  from  Neuilly.  The 
house  was  of  the  detached  order — The  ''petit  hotely 
entre  cour  et  jardtn,"  one  sees  mentioned  so  often  in 
the  real-estate  advertisements  of  the  Paris  papers — 
having  a  walled  court  in  front  and  a  garden  in  the  rear, 
which  in  this  instance  contained  a  studio,  for  the  lady 


PARIS   REVISITED  315 

of  the  house,  it  appeared,  was  an  artist.  The  occu- 
pants were  away  for  the  summer  at  a  country  seat  they 
had  somewhere  on  the  coast  in  Brittany,  and  the  key 
had  been  left  with  our  friends,  in  order  that  they  might 
send  to  have  the  house  aired  from  time  to  time,  and 
look  after  it  generally.  The  further  description  which 
my  friend  gave,  and  the  assurance  that  in  all  prob- 
ability we  could  secure  it  for  the  summer  served  to 
make  us  anxious  to  inspect  the  house,  for  it  seemed  in 
all  points  to  provide  for  our  necessities;  having  a  studio 
and  a  garden  and  being  in  the  city  yet  within  a  few 
minutes'  walk  of  the  open  country,  thus  combining  the 
advantages  of  the  two  situations. 

Before  we  separated  it  was  decided  that  on  the  mor- 
row we  would  see  the  house,  in  company  with  our 
friends,  and  with  the  hope  that  we  might  settle  for  the 
summer  in  Paris  we  bade  each  other  good-night. 

Early  the  next  day  we  stood  before  the  house  in  a 
street  so  quiet  and  provincial  that  we  might  have  been 
miles  away  instead  of  being  in  close  proximity  to  the 
Avenue  de  Villiers,  an  avenue  that  is  almost  fashion- 
able, and  that  leads  to  the  very  centre  of  Paris. 

The  house  itself  was  a  modest  building  of  two  stories, 
built  in  the  symmetrical  fashion  of  the  small  pavilion 
of  the  time  of  Louis  XVI — the  kitchen  and  dining-room 
on  one  side  of  the  central  hall,  the  other  side  occupied 
by  a  long  salon,  while  above  were  four  sleeping  rooms. 

But  on  entering  it  was  the  jewels  rather  than  the 
casket  that  engaged  our  attention.  For  its  contents 
were  those  of  a  small  museum.  The  occupant  was,  as 
I  have  said,  an  art  critic,  and  in  tout  bien,  toute  lionneur^ 
in  France  it  is  the  custom  for  an  artist  to  acknowledge 


316       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

a  laudatory  critical  notice  of  his  works  by  the  present  of 
a  sketch  or  some  specimen  of  the  work  praised.  There- 
fore these  testimonials  of  gratitude  covered  the  walls 
and  were  signed  by  many  of  the  most  noted  names  in 
France,  In  only  one  or  two  instances  were  they  im- 
portant examples;  but  to  an  artist  these  studies  and 
drawings  possessed  a  ch^rm  as  great  as  more  finished 
work.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  catalogue  the  collection, 
which  I  was  privileged  to  study  for  five  months;  but 
here  were  superb  drawings  by  Paul  Baudry,  Puvis  de 
Chavannes,  and  Delaunay;  a  pen-and-ink  sketch  by 
Alma  Tadema;  one  of  the  most  flower-like  and  beauti- 
ful works — a  pastel — by  Renoir  that  I  have  ever  seen; 
a  sketch  by  Manet,  and  a  marine  view  by  Claude 
Monet,  to  name  but  a  few.  The  bust  of  Victor  Hugo 
by  Rodin  occupied  a  position  of  honour  in  the  salon^ 
and  several  replicas  in  plaster  of  his  smaller  works 
represented  sculpture.  The  furnishings  of  the  house 
showed  the  taste  of  the  occupants;  good  old  cabinets, 
tables  and  chairs  of  the  Louis  XV  type  predominat- 
ing; while  some  excellent  tapestry  adorned  the  salon, 
almost  the  only  modern  object  being  a  grand  piano  of 
Erard's  fabrication.  There  were  books  everywhere; 
not  only  in  a  large  library,  which  formed  the  first  story 
of  the  detached  studio  at  the  garden-end,  but  the  house 
contained  a  precious  assortment  of  first  editions  and 
dedicated  volumes,  covering  a  wide  range  of  French 
literature;  for  the  critic  was  the  son-in-law  of  Theophile 
Gautier,  and  had  inherited  many  of  his  books,  in  addi- 
tion to  those  which  had  come  to  him  in  the  course  of 
his  own  professional  life. 

The  garden  was  of  no  great  extents  a  simple  square  of 


PARIS   REVISITED  317 

grass  and  shrubbery;  but  it  was  shaded  by  the  trees  of 
an  adjoining  property  which  was  of  larger  proportion; 
a  small  private  park  such  as  there  are  many  hidden 
behind  stone  and  mortar  in  the  Paris  streets;  and,  in 
addition  to  the  fairly  commodious  studio,  it  afforded 
in  its  walled  seclusion  an  excellent  place  for  work  out 
of  doors. 

I  had  been  building  castles  in  Spain  all  my  life,  and 
had  been  lucky  enough  to  inhabit  one  or  two;  but, 
when  after  the  brief  delay  of  an  exchange  of  letters,  the 
keys  of  this  pretty  place  were  handed  over  to  us,  under 
the  terms  of  an  agreement  suited  to  our  extremely 
moderate  financial  resources,  the  reality  of  these  legen- 
dary edifices — which  I  had  never  permitted  myself  to 
doubt — seemed  doubly  true. 

The  "domestic  problem,"  which  in  truth  seems  to 
vex  our  Paris  friends  beyond  measure,  is,  in  comparison 
with  our  home  production  of  the  same  vexed  question, 
easy  of  solution  to  a  philosophic  mind  schooled  in  the 
domestic  adversities  of  New  York;  so  that  we  very 
shortly  procured  an  efficient  servant,  slightly  afflicted 
with  kleptomania  and  mendacity,  but  possessing  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  her  trade;  and  having  a  roof- 
tree  and  the  commissariat  provided,  what  is  more 
natural  than  to  share  these  blessings  with  one's  friends  .? 


XXVI 
12    RUE   VERNIER 

IN   truth  the  little  house  at  the  above  number  was 
seldom   without  guests  that  summer,  and  though 
the  days  were  devoted  to  sedulous  and  pleasant 
industry,  at  night  the  roof  echoed  the  friendly  hum  of 
talk. 

Not  so  often  the  roof,  however,  as  the  star-studded 
arch  of  the  sky  and  the  tapestry  of  the  trees  in  the 
neighbouring  garden,  for,  following  the  customs  of  the 
country,  we  scorned  to  stay  indoors  when  the  weather 
permitted  us  to  dine  in  the  open  air.  An  iron  garden- 
table  stood  permanently  out-of-doors,  and  there  we 
gathered  our  friends  about  us — old  friends  in  renewal 
of  our  past  sundered  relations  and  new  ones  that,  it 
appeared,  we  had  somehow  missed  up  to  that  time. 

We  had  hardly  unpacked  our  trunks,  in  our  new 
quarters,  before  Theodore  Robinson  had  been  lured 
from  Barbizon,  and  had  been  adopted  as  a  quasi- 
permanent  member  of  the  household.  The  qualifica- 
tion is  necessary,  for  with  his  independence  nothing 
more  was  possible.  In  the  morning,  over  coffee,  he 
would  quietly  remark  that  he  would  be  gone  for  a  few 
days;  and  he  would  thus,  with  characteristic  quietness, 
slip  out  of  our  common  life  for  a  time;  going,  no  doubt, 
to  Barbizon,  Grez,  or  some  haunt  along  the  Seine — 
for  Giverny  was  of  later  discovery  with  him — and  then 
slip  back  into  his  place  at  the  table  as  quietly  as  before. 

318 


RUE  VERNIER  319 


This  his  friends  humoured,  as  they  had  learned  to  do 
years  before,  and  as  they  continued  to  do  in  after  years, 
when  a  ring  at  the  bell  might  mean  his  unannounced 
return  from  Europe;  or,  after  a  winter  in  New  York, 
his  announcement,  "I  think  I'll  sail  to-morrow"  would 
be  made  in  much  the  same  tone  as  his  (more  frequent) 
remark,  "If  you  are  not  expecting  guests,  I  think  I'll 
stay  to  dinner." 

But  we  were  always  glad  to  have  him  at  any  time  on 
any  terms,  and  his  presence  added  greatly  to  the  crown- 
ing event  of  the  summer  when,  after  the  hesitation  due 
to  his  state  of  health  and  braving  the  dangers  that 
menaced  his  slightest  journey,  Louis  Stevenson  and  his 
wife  decided  to  accept  the  pressing  invitation  that  their 
friends  in  Paris  had  hastened  to  make,  as  a  preceding 
and  alternative  project  to  their  own  visit  to  Skerryvore. 
July,  meanwhile,  had  lengthened  to  August,  when  one 
morning  there  came,  dated  from  the  British  Museum, 
or  rather,  and  as  usual,  not  dated,  though  the  post- 
mark fixes  the  day  as  the  loth  of  August,  1886,  a  line 
that  was  equally  and  characteristically  vague: 

"We  look  to  arrive  in  Paris  Monday  or  Friday:  till 
when,  R.  L.  S." 

As  this  afforded  no  satisfactory  clew  to  time  or  place 
of  arrival,  we  simply  awaited  their  coming,  when  a 
note  came  from  W.  E.  Henley,  whom  I  then  only  knew 
by  name,  that  was  more  explicit.  It  appeared  that 
Henley  was  in  Paris  for  a  time,  and  that  Stevenson  had 
promised  to  spend  a  night  at  the  hotel  where  he  was 
stopping  before  coming  to  the  rue  Vernier,  that  our 
friends  would  arrive  the  following  day,  and  that  our 
first  opportunity  of  seeing  them  would  be  by  coming  to 


320      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  hotel.  Consequently  the  next  evening  we  hastened 
to  the  Hotel  Jacob,  rue  Jacob,  where  I  found  my  old 
friends— and  the  Henleys,  with  whom,  as  in  honour 
bound,  we  at  once  swore  alliance — comfortably  housed. 

As  we  entered  the  room  Louis  came  forward,  moving 
swiftly  with  the  lightness  that  was  peculiar  to  him, 
that  was  devoid  of  any  appearance  of  haste;  a  gait 
entirely  his  own,  that  kept  him  constantly  in  motion 
without  suggestion  of  restlessness;  a  quality  of  move- 
ment not  unlike  his  speech,  flowing  swiftly  yet  meas- 
uredly.  If,  accepting  Anglo-Saxon  customs,  our  greet- 
ing was  less  demonstrative  in  word  and  action  than  many 
in  which  I  had  shared  with  my  Gallic  friends  in  the 
preceding  weeks,  it  was  no  less  heart-felt. 

To  my  great  joy  the  appearance  of  my  friend  had 
hardly  changed.  The  flush  of  his  cheek,  always  and 
at  all  times  richly  coloured,  with  a  complexion  more 
typical  of  Italy  than  Scotland,  though  there  was  nothing 
of  the  olive  tone  in  the  deep  ruddiness  of  his  tint,  was  as 
I  remembered  him.  He  was  still  "unspeakably  slight" 
as  in  the  earlier  time,  hardly  more  so;  and  of  the  two 
I,  who  had  shared  this  quality  when  he  had  last  seen 
me,  was  by  far  the  most  changed. 

Everything  conspired  that  evening  to  wipe  away  the 
eight  intervening  years  and  their  many  changeful 
events  that  had  elapsed  since  we  had  bade  each  other 
adieu  in  the  pare  Monceau.  Henley,  who  in  after 
years  I  have  known  in  moods  of  cynical  bitterness,  was 
this  evening,  and  during  the  rest  of  his  stay  in  Paris,  as 
blithe  as  a  great  overgrown  school-boy  on  a  holiday 
jaunt.  He  played  the  host  within  the  limits  of  his 
chamhre  meuhlee  with  the  genial  largeness  which  became 


RUE  VERNIER  321 

him  so  well,  for  he  was  ever  a  most  hospitable  soul. 
His  great  physical  stature,  his  kindly  eyes,  in  which 
proud  self-reliance  and  a  generous  choler  were  latent 
also,  though  dormant  for  the  moment,  his  resonant 
voice  and  ruddy  viking  type  were  strangely  attractive, 
giving  the  impression  of  one  born  to  command,  a  man 
of  action  cruelly  fettered  by  his  lameness.  In  the  meet- 
ing of  the  two  old  friends  he  took  an  approving  interest, 
devoid  of  jealousy  or  patronage,  with  a  kindly  paternal 
air,  as  who  should  say:  "I  am  glad  to  have  brought 
this  about.     Bless  you,  my  children,  be  happy!" 

To  add  to  this  sense  of  the  renewal  of  the  time  of 
our  youth,  it  chanced  that  Henley  had  a  brother-in- 
law,  living  in  the  quarter  and  following  the  study  of 
art,  who,  in  honour  of  the  occasion,  had  sought  out 
and  brought  to  this  meeting. three  or  four  men  of  our 
student  days,  who  still  lingered  in  Paris.  These  were 
ostensible  students  who,  in  a  manner  not  unusual  in 
this  city  of  study,  where  there  is  no  limitation  to  the 
age  of  the  student  or  the  duration  of  the  anticipatory 
stage  to  the  real  activities  of  life,  had  remained,  liking 
the  profit  and  the  kind  of  life  of  this  Forest  of  Arden, 
in  which  we,  too,  had  dwelt.  They  had  been  mere 
acquaintances  in  the  past,  as  they  now  traversed  the 
scene  for  a  moment  to  vanish  once  more;  but  their 
presence  in  the  chorus  lent  reality  to  our  comedy  of 
looking  backwards.  One  of  them,  in  point  of  fact,  had 
known  R.  L.  S.  so  little  in  the  past  that,  challenged  to 
guess  his  identity,  he,  with  much  show  of  confidence, 
declared  that  he  must  be  one  who  had  been  an  inno- 
cent "duffer" — the  butt  of  the  quarter  in  the  old  time 
— and    Stevenson's    momentary    discomfiture,    as    he 


322       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

gasped,  "Oh,  no,  surely  not  he,"  added  greatly  to  our 
gayety. 

As  a  sequel  to  this  happy  meeting  our  friends  were 
on  the  morrow  lodged  under  our  roof.  The  Henleys 
meanwhile  remained  in  Paris,  and  were  with  us  fre- 
quently. 

At  one  of  our  dinners  an  incident  occurred  which, 
as  a  salutary  correction  to  the  manner  in  which  the 
chronicler  has  on  a  number  of  occasions  played  the 
heau  role  in  this  narrative,  my  regard  for  veracity 
obliges  me  to  relate.  We  were  numerous  at  table: 
Louis  and  his  wife,  Henley,  his  brother-in-law  and 
their  wives,  Robinson,  and  ourselves.  Our  talk  had 
drifted  to  the  consideration  of  the  peculiar  qualities  of 
American  humour.  Both  through  his  marriage  and 
his  frequentation  of  all  classes  of  people  in  California, 
Louis  had  a  high  appreciation  and  a  subtle  understand- 
ing of  our  national  form  of  humour;  and  he  proceeded 
to  tell,  for  the  benefit  of  our  British  friends,  the  well- 
known  tale  of  the  mongoos,  that  was  being  conveyed 
to  a  supposititious  brother,  in  order  that,  according  to 
the  nature  of  the  animal,  it  might  devour  the  supposi- 
titious snakes  that  had  been  engendered  in  the  brain  of 
the  supposititious  brother.  He  had  reached  the  climax, 
"This  ain't  no  real  mongoos,  neither,"  when,  ill-in- 
spired, I  endeavoured  to  cap  his  story  with  another  of 
like  quality. 

This  also  has  acquired  a  deserved  reputation  for  its 
typical  character — as  well  as  a  certain  flavour  of  an- 
tiquity— but  twenty  years  ago  it  was  less  well  known. 
I  had  heard  it  first  in  New  York  when  a  visitor  at  the 
Tile  Club,  that  short-lived  organization  of  which   all 


RUE   VERNIER  323 

its  former  members — and  many  who  were  only  occa- 
sional guests — deplore  the  demise;  and  had  heard  it, 
moreover,  from  the  lips  of  its  godfather,  if,  indeed,  he 
is  not  its  natural  progenitor,  that  versatile  gentleman 
who  in  those  days  was  an  industrious  tiler  in  addition 
to  his  activities  as  author,  painter,  and  sea-wall  con- 
tractor— in  two  of  which  varied  occupations  he  is  still, 
fortunately,  busied. 

It  is  the  tale  of  the  mate  of  a  whaler,  out  of  Nan- 
tucket, who  sights  "a  snorter  and  a  blower,"  and  ex- 
citedly seeks  his  captain  for  permission  to  "lower"  and 
give  chase;  to  which  his  phlegmatic  superior,  not  deny- 
ing that  "she  may  be  a  snorter  and  a  blower,"  responds, 
"but  I  don't  see  fitten  for  you  to  lower."  With  the 
cetacean  still  in  the  offing,  the  mate  again  goes  below 
to  the  captain,  who,  this  time,  in  response  to  the  fervent 
plea,  pleasantly  remarks  that  "z/ she's  a  snorter  and  a 

blower,  Mr.  Macy,  you  may  lower,  and  be 

to  you!"     Thus  far  I  had  proceeded  glibly,  but, 


at  this  point,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  "our 
army  in  Flanders"  were  babes-in-arms  in  comparison 
with  Capting  Coffin  and  Mr.  Macy — and  there  were 
ladies  present. 

Now  in  the  pursuit  of  artistic  verity  I  would  not 
strain  at  a  gnat,  nor  even  a  camel;  and  from  two  of 
these  ladies  I  was  reasonably  sure  of  the  large  tolera- 
tion that  the  quest  of  the  fitting  word,  or  the  exact 
value  of  tone  and  colour,  often  demands  from  the  long- 
suffering  spouses  of  the  writer  or  painter.  The  two 
other  ladies,  however,  were  comparative  strangers; 
they  were  Scotch  also,  and — incongruous  as  the  mo- 
mentary  thought   seems    now   in   the   light   of  further 


324      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

acquaintance — no  exactness  of  presentation  might,  pos- 
sibly, pardon  the  considerable  quantity  of  profanity, 
paradoxically  contrasted  to  the  most  studied  politeness, 
on  which  the  whole  structure  of  this  particular  story 
reposes. 

Therefore  I  hesitated — and  was  lost.  Stevenson,  a 
most  exacting  critic  of  form,  caught  the  waver  in  my 
voice,  and,  holding  up  a  warning  finger,  cried,  "Stop!" 
Then  turning  to  where  Theodore  Robinson  sat,  he 
said,  "Do  you  know  that  story .?"  and  upon  Robinson's 
nodded  affirmative,  he  settled  back  in  his  chair,  with  a 
sidewise  look  of  scorn  for  his  host,  saying:  "Then  be  so 
kind  as  to  tell  it  in  a  proper  manner." 

As  I  have  said,  I  have  heard  this  story  supremely 
well  told,  but  never  so  well  as  that  time.  The  contrast 
between  the  calm,  dispassionate  delivery  in  the  husky 
voice,  hardly  more  than  a  whisper,  with  only  the  gleam 
of  his  expressive  eyes  to  temper  the  implacable  im- 
partiality with  which  Robinson  gave  the  variations  be- 
tween the  strong  vernacular  of  the  seafaring  men,  and 
the  nice  differentiation  of  rank  and  character  of  each 
of  them,  was  delightful.  He  went  on  to  tell  of  the 
triumphant  return  of  the  mate  with  the  captured  whale, 
the  captain's  change  of  tone  as  he  greeted  the  victor 
as  "a  scholard  and  a  gentleman,"  with  "here's  your 
whiskey  and  here's  your  seegars,"  and  the  noble  reply 
of  the  mate:  ""Capting  Coffin,  1  don't  want  your 
whiskey,  nor  no  more  your  seegars.  All  I  want  is 
si-vility,  and  that  of  the  commonest sort!" 

I  have  often  thought  of  Robinson's  simple  and 
straightforward  rendition  of  this  story  as  being  strangely 
identical  with  the  best  expression  of  his  art:    a  direct 


RUE   VERNIER  325 

attack,  the  main  foundation  firmly  established,  the 
difficult  passages  met  and  lightly  indicated,  rather  than 
painstakingly  rendered,  and  the  whole  carried  to  com- 
pletion, with  every  part  kept  in  the  nicest  balance, 
without  faltering  or  the  slightest  sign  of  the  means  used 
to  obtain  the  result.  Such  was  the  best  of  his  painting; 
and  this  story,  as  it  rippled  from  his  lips,  in  the  broken 
cadence  of  his  asthmatic  voice,  might  have  been  told  to 
a  convocation  of  the  clergy,  possessing  a  sense  of  humour, 
without  offence. 

In  our  possibly  less  exacting  circle  the  story  found 
instant  favour,  even  the  Briton  and  his  allied  Scots 
showing  appreciation  of  its  humour,  and  Louis  declar- 
ing that  it  was  positively  the  best  American  story  that 
he  had  ever  heard;  but  that  the  man  who  would  maim 
its  fair  proportions,  as  I  was  about  to  do,  was  quite 
unfit  for  publication. 

One  trait  of  British  insularity  on  the  part  of  Henley 
amused  his  American  friends  greatly,  when  one  day  he 
paused  before  a  proof  of  Henri  Lefort's  fine  etching  of 
George  Washington  from  Stuart's  well-known  original, 
which  hung  in  the  hallway  of  the  house,  with  the  remark, 
"That's  a  fine  head.  Who  is  it.'"'  Suspecting  an  in- 
tentional assumption  of  ignorance  on  his  part,  I  an- 
swered, with  the  voice  of  our  national  bird,  "Well,  if 
you  don't  know  who  that  is,  you'd  better  ask  George 
the  Third,"  only  to  be  met  by  a  stare  of  honest  per- 
plexity. Explanations  following,  it  appeared  that  this 
man  of  wide  knowledge  had  somehow  never  seen,  or 
had  failed  to  retain  in  his  memory,  any  image  of  the 
much  be-pictured  father  of  our  country. 

It  was  through  Henley  that  Stevenson,  and  Incident- 


326       A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

ally  Robinson  and  I,  met  Rodin.  As  the  editor  of  the 
"Magazine  of  Art,"  Henley  had  endeavoured,  as  he 
expressed  it,  "to  cram  down  the  throats"  of  his  sub- 
scribers some  appreciation  of  the  great  French  sculptor. 
It  was  a  task  foredoomed  to  failure,  for  the  whole  char- 
acter of  the  respectable  periodical  whose  fortunes  he 
directed  was  essentially  popular  and  middle-class;  and 
Henley  had  many  tales  of  indignant  protests  from  his 
scandalized  readers,  in  whose  views  the  publisher  and 
the  counting-house  coincided  so  thoroughly  that  even- 
tually the  editorial  advocacy  of  this  and  congenial  forms 
of  art  brought  about  a  rupture  of  their  relations.  The 
gallant  campaign  conducted  by  Henley  had  excited  the 
gratitude  of  Rodin,  however,  and  in  return  he  had 
offered  to  model  the  bust  of  his  protagonist;  part  of 
whose  errand  to  Paris  was  to  profit  by  this  opportunity 
to  secure  so  notable  a  portrait. 

I  had  heard  much  of  Rodin  from  those  who  knew 
him  well,  and  for  certain  examples  of  his  work  my 
admiration  placed  him  at  the  head  of  living  sculptors. 
Though  during  a  fortnight  or  more  I  saw  him  under 
circumstances  of  the  frankest  and  freest  intercourse,  I 
have  never  since  availed  myself  of  the  opportunity  of 
seeking  to  know  him  better,  though  this  abstention  is 
due  only  to  his  environment  and  does  not  lessen  the  in- 
terest which  the  man  himself  excites.  He  was  then,  and 
I  believe  that  he  is  still,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  wor- 
shipping admirers,  whose  homage  he  accepts,  quite  pos- 
sibly, with  sympathetic  gratitude,  finding  in  it  an  incen- 
tive to  renewed  effort.  Quite  as  possibly,  however,  I 
fancied  that  the  sculptor  listened  to  much  of  this 
adulation,  more  especially  that  which  invested  certain 


RUE   VERNIER  327 

of  his  direct  and  simple  works  with  intentions  that  were 
more  or  less  recondite,  with  a  puzzled  air;  willing  per- 
haps to  believe  that,  in  his  desire  to  render  his  large 
impression  of  nature  to  the  last  degree  of  subtle  observa- 
tion, he  had,  unwittingly,  endowed  his  work  with  these 
abstruse  qualities.  The  oft-quoted  saying  of  J.  M.  W. 
Turner,  apropos  of  Ruskin:  "that  a  young  fellow 
down  at  Oxford  had  found  in  his  work  a  lot  of  things 
that  he  did  not  know  that  he  had  put  there,"  came  to 
my  mind,  as  I  listened  to  certain  rhapsodies,  which  the 
sculptor  received  with  an  air  which  might  have  been 
that  of  a  prophet  in  communion  with  his  adepts. 

I  venture  these  observations  with  a  full  appreciation 
of  their  necessarily  superficial  character  in  so  far  as 
they  are  the  result  of  personal  contact  with  one  who  is, 
from  whatever  point  of  view  he  may  be  considered, 
among  the  greatest  artists  of  modern  times. 

Though  in  company  with  Henley  we  breathed  to 
some  extent  this  atmosphere  of  perpetual  incense  that 
enveloped  the  sculptor  even  at  that  time,  and  which 
has  grown  thicker  and  more  impenetrable  since  that 
day,  we  added  but  little  to  its  volume;  nor,  in  justice 
to  M.  Rodin,  were  we  made  to  feel  that  it  was  expected 
or  would  be  welcome. 

We  brought  a  tribute  of  hearty  admiration  of  a  more 
reasoned  order  at  least,  and,  with  the  fraternity  which 
exists  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  in  art,  the  great 
sculptor  welcomed  us  upon  flattering  terms  of  equality 
of  purpose. 

Henley's  bust  grew  and  was  finished  during  this 
period,  and  the  result,  which  can  be  studied  here,  was 
a  noble  presentation  of  the  man.     It  is  perhaps  a  trifle 


328       A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

Gallic  in  the  poise  of  the  head,  and  thus  misses  some- 
what the  essential  British  character  of  the  model;  but 
otherwise  it  is  both  truthful  to  the  actual  form  and 
masterly  in  its  direct  and  forceful  modelling.  On 
different  occasions  Stevenson  and  I  were  present  at 
the  sittings  for  the  bust,  and,  as  Rodin  would  pause  in 
his  work,  his  carefully  considered  and  slowly  uttered 
contribution  to  the  more  sprightly  conversation  of 
Henley  and  Stevenson  gave  me  an  impression  that  I 
had  frequently  experienced  in  talks  with  the  peasants. 
Millet  had  retained  to  some  degree  this  sense  of  the 
cautious  use  of  the  spoken  word,  and  it  is  typical  of  the 
peasant  class,  who  are  not  prodigal  of  expression,  and 
prefer  to  wait  until  their  interlocutor  has  said  his  last 
word  and  placed  them  in  full  possession  of  the  matter 
under  consideration  before  they  venture  a  reply.  Rodin 
is,  I  believe,  like  Millet,  a  Norman,  by  descent  at  least, 
and  in  the  presence  of  such  spendthrifts  in  utterance  as 
Stevenson  and  Henley,  with  thought  succeeding  thought, 
parturition  succeeding  conception  without  interval,  it 
was  amusing  to  watch  the  unwonted  mental  alertness 
forced  upon  him. 

This  was  less  marked  during  the  course  of  a  long 
(Iejeuner,sh3.red  by  Rodin,  Stevenson,  Henley  and  me,  at 
Henley's  invitation.  This  feast  took  place  at  the 
restaurant  Laperouse  on  the  Quai  des  Grands- 
Augustins,  a  resort  beloved  of  Voltaire  and  his  asso- 
ciates, near  the  Palais  de  Justice,  which  has  retained 
the  patronage  of  the  robe  and  gown,  and  which,  even 
to-day,  has  not  been  quite  modernized  out  of  existence — 
or  out  of  excellence.  In  the  low  entresol  looking  out 
over   the    river   we    inflicted    our    dilatory    method    of 


William  Ernest  Henley 

From  the  bust  by  Augusts  Rodin 


RUE   VERNIER  329 

dining,  and  our  prolixity  of  conversational  habit  upon 
our  distinguished  sculptor.  He  seemed  nothing  loth, 
and  under  the  influence  of  our  joint  loquacity,  tem- 
pered by  earnestness  and  a  sense  of  appreciation  of 
the  worth  of  our  guest,  much  of  his  cautious  reserve 
vanished.  He  spoke  of  his  early  struggles,  of  his 
journeyman-decorator's  work  in  Belgium,  of  his  em- 
ployment as  an  assistant  for  Carrier-Belleuse  (for  whose 
talent  he  evinced  great  admiration,  saying  regretfully 
that  he  was  "w«  grand  sculpteur  manque"  by  over- 
facility  and  the  demands  of  a  disordered  life);  and 
finally,  upon  my  recital  of  the  scene  at  the  Salon,  where 
Gaudez  rescued  his  "Bronze  Age"  from  its  disadvan- 
tageous position,  as  I  have  already  described,  he  quite 
won  my  heart  by  saying,  "that  is  quite  in  his  character," 
"//  est  hon  gar  con,  bon  camarade,  et  hon  sculpteur — 
notre  ami  Gaudez."  At  last  Rodin  arose,  apologizing 
for  leaving  so  pleasant  a  company,  but  explaining  that 
he  had  a  sitter  coming  at  two  o'clock,  and  that  he  must 
get  to  his  work.  One  of  us  took  out  his  watch  and 
silently  pointed  to  the  hour  of  five  which  its  dial  marked, 
at  which  the  sculptor  threw  up  his  hands  in  comic 
dismay.  Calling  for  pen  and  paper  he  wrote  a  brief 
note  to  placate  the  disappointed  sitter,  and  then,  before 
separating  our  various  ways,  we  all  walked  down  the 
quai  and  stood  for  a  time  on  the  Bridge  of  Arts — 
where  two  of  us  recalled  our  previous  station  there  on 
the  day  of  our  first  meeting. 


XXVII 
PLEASANT  DAYS  IN  THE  RUE  VERNIER 

EVEN  as  the  ancients  conducted  their  feasts  under 
the  shadow  of  memento  7nort,  our  Httle  circle 
showed  Httle  outward  concern  for  the  precarious 
state  of  health  of  its  most  cherished  member.  Yet  this 
thought  lurked  near  us,  and  more  than  once  have  I 
seen  Stevenson  rise  so  quietly  as  not  to  attract  the 
attention  of  others  and  slip  out  of  our  gay  company, 
carrying  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips  as  he  left  the  room, 
in  prevision  of  a  hemorrhage.  Fortunately,  these  were 
always  false  alarms,  and  two  minutes  after,  respited 
and  apparently  forgetful,  his  voice  would  rejoin  the 
chorus  of  discussion  or  story. 

In  our  journeys  around  the  city,  the  easy-going  open 
carriages  of  Paris  permitted  us  to  cover  a  wide  range 
within  the  city  walls.  I  was  always  careful  to  instruct 
the  driver  to  take  a  roundabout  course,  so  that  we  might 
follow  the  asphalted  streets,  for  it  was  feared  that  the 
jolting  over  uneven  pavements  might  wake  the  sleeping 
enemy;  yet,  with  this  impending  danger  never  absent, 
my  friend  contrived  to  be  cheerful,  and  I  could  but 
imitate  his  example.  The  gallant  recklessness  with 
which  he  ever  played  the  game  of  life  was  often  brought 
into  play  in  these  rides.  On  entering  the  carriage  he 
would  say:  "Now  you  must  do  all  the  talking;  that  is 
the  only  condition  under  which  I  am  allowed  to  go  out 
this  morning."     Perhaps  for  three  minutes  he  would 

330 


RUE   VERNIER  331 

be  silent,  and  then  speaking,  he  would  be  reminded  of 
this  condition.  Another  momentary  silence,  another 
infringement  of  the  rule;  this  repeated  perhaps  once  or 
twice  more;  and  finally  declaration  that  life  was  not 
tenable  under  such  conditions,  and  the  floodgates  of 
talk  would  be  loosed — never,  fortunately,  with  ill 
results. 

This  skirting  the  edge  of  danger  lent  a  peculiar  zest 
to  our  rides  through  the  beautiful  city  in  the  pleasant 
sunshine,  which  was  clement  to  him  during  all  the  stay 
in  Paris,  that  was  destined  to  be  his  last  sojourn  there, 
though  we  did  not  think  of  this  at  the  time.  "You 
must  be  'a  chronic  sickist'  to  appreciate  all  the  fun  I 
am  getting  out  of  this,"  he  said,  as  we  rolled  along  a 
tree-lined  boulevard.  Every  sight  of  the  streets  pleased 
him,  above  all,  the  trim  Parisiennes,  grand  ladies  in 
fine  equipages  on  the  Champs  Elysees,  or,  more  often, 
bareheaded  working  girls  tripping  along  on  their  way 
to  their  shops.  "We  can  beat  them  in  the  way  of  men, 
I  think,"  was  one  of  his  comments,  "but  the  Lord  was 
on  His  mettle  when  He  made  the  French  woman.  In 
America  and  England,  at  their  best,  they're  often  angels 
and  goddesses,  but  here  they're  real  women." 

Our  destination  one  day  was  the  book-shop  of 
Calmann-Levy,  the  publishers  of  a  translation  of  my 
friend's  "New  Arabian  Nights,"  which  he  wished  to 
procure  for  presentation  to  Rodin.  On  our  way  thither 
we  had  gleefully  rehearsed  the  comedy  of  the  unknown 
author  obtaining  a  gratuitous  and  unbiased  opinion 
from  the  vender  of  his  wares,  but  somehow  it  failed 
utterly  before  the  polite  indifference  of  the  salesman  as 
to  the  quality  of  his  offering.     When  we  returned  to  our 


332      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

carriage  we  were  quite  crestfallen,  and  Stevenson  re- 
marked: "If  I  was  getting  any  royalty  from  that 
translation,  I  suppose  that  it  would  have  been  my  duty 
to  go  behind  the  counter,  and  you  could  have  purchased 
the  book  while  I  could  have  expatiated  on  its  merits, 
and  between  us  we  could  have  shown  that  young  man 
a  thing  or  two  about  dealing  in  literary  masterpieces." 
We  agreed  that  even  this  might  have  been  useless,  but 
upon  our  next  quest  we  were  more  successful.  This 
time  we  crossed  the  Seine  to  the  fine  old-fashioned  shop 
of  J.  Hetzel  &  Cie,  in  the  rue  Jacob,  whose  imprint 
is  to  be  found  on  all  the  myriad  works  of  Jules  Verne 
and  much  other  literature  adapted  to  the  uses  of  the 
youth  of  France.  This  house  publishes  a  good  edition 
of  "Treasure  Island,"  in  French,  with  numerous  illus- 
trations. 

We  entered  Hetzel's  together,  and  Stevenson  elab- 
orately described  the  book  he  desired;  not  being  quite 
sure  of  the  title,  or  the  author's  name  except  that  it 
ended  in  son — "as  so  many  of  our  English  names  do." 
But  here  the  young  man  behind  the  counter  rose  to  the 
fly  in  the  most  beautiful  manner.  The  volume  was 
brought  at  once,  and  the  shopman  turning  to  the 
preface  (prepared  by  another  hand  than  the  author's 
for  this  edition)  read  how  Mr.  Gladstone,  returning 
from  the  House  of  Commons  late  at  night,  had  picked 
up  the  book  and,  despite  his  fatigue  and  the  entreaties 
of  his  family  that  he  should  seek  needed  repose,  had 
read  persistently  until  the  dawn  of  day  and  the  end  of 
the  story.  This  amused  me  more  than  it  did  the 
author;  for  to  owe  a  part  of  his  first  popular  success 
to  the  G.  O.  M. — for  some  such  incident  had  occurred 


RUE  VERNIER  333 


— was  something  of  a  trial  to  one  who  was  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  Gladstonian  poHcies;  indeed,  it  was  about 
this  time  that  he  meditated  signing  a  necessary  letter 
to  the  Prime  Minister  as  coming  "from  your  fellow- 
criminal  in  the  sight  of  God."  Gliding  over  this 
dangerous  ground,  Stevenson  next  inquired  if  the 
moral  tendencies  of  the  work  were  such  that  it  could 
be  put  into  the  hands  of  youth  without  danger;  and 
was  fervently  reassured  upon  this  point.  Here  I 
thought  that  I  might  take  a  hand,  and  I  blandly  re- 
marked that  from  a  particularly  intimate  friend,  who 
was  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  most  noted  of  the 
younger  English  writers,  I  had  heard  some  very  dam- 
aging statements  concerning  Stevenson's  character. 
We  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping  our  faces  straight 
as  the  bookseller  skilfully  parried  this  thrust  by  saying 
that  it  was  evidently  hardly  necessary  to  remind  gen- 
tlemen of  our  literary  tastes,  that  many  authors  of 
notoriously  loose  lives  had  written  works  abounding 
in  moral  qualities;  and  consequently  that,  though  he 
did  not  doubt  my  report  of  Stevenson's  character,  he 
would  guarantee  that  no  trace  of  these  regrettable  de- 
fects would  be  found  in  the  book. 

"That's  something  like  a  salesman!"  said  my  friend 
as  we  bore  away  the  volume,  which  lies  before  me  now, 
and  from  which  I  copy  the  charming  dedication  which 
he  wrote  in  it  the  next  day. 

"Chere  Madame  Low: 

"Nousallons  fairequelques  petitesfautes  de  Fran^ais, 
n'est  ce  pas  ? — C'est  convenu  ^ — alors,  me  voila  con- 
tent: me  voila  a  meme  de  vous  dire  tout  tranquillement 


334       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

que  ce  que  vous  avez  a  la  main  est  une  petite  betise 
assez  mal  ecrite,  assez  bien  traduite;  et  que  je  vous 
prie  de  I'accepter  en  souvenir  du  boulevard  Mont- 
parnasse,  de  Montigny  sur  Loing  et  de  la  rue  Vernier. 
Mille  amities  a  vous  et  a  Will. 

"  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.* 
"Paris  12  rue  Vernier 
"18  Aout  i! 


I  have  before  spoken  of  his  easy  and  colloquial  use 
of  French,  but  the  above  happens  to  be  the  only  com- 
position, short  as  it  is,  that  I  know  of  his  in  that  lan- 
guage. With  the  variety  of  dialects  and  accents  among 
the  natives  of  France,  there  is  abundant  charity  for 
the  stranger  who  essays  to  speak  the  language,  a 
charity  not  devoid  of  wonder  that  the  alien  does  so  well; 
so  that  the  most  ludicrous  mistakes  fail  to  elicit  the 
hilarity  which  too  often  greets  the  foreigner  when  he 
trips  in  English.  This  charity  does  not  extend  to  their 
literature,  however,  where  to  have  something  to  say  by 
no  means  excuses  a  lack  of  art  in  conveying  the  message; 
or  to  the  stage,  where  the  slightest  trace  of  foreign 
accent    would    preclude    the    most    marked    histrionic 

*  In  Graham  Balfour's  "Life"  (Vol.  II,  p.  24),  mention  is  made  of  this 
dedication,  and  the  statement  at  its  beginning  ("we  are  about  to  make  some 
small  mistakes  in  French")  is  followed  by  the  quotation  of  an  alleged  remark 
of  mine  "as  in  fact  he  immediately  proceeded  to  do."  Is  it  possible  that, 
speaking  from  memory,  far  from  my  books,  in  mid-Atlantic  to  be  quite 
precise,  I  made  so  sweeping  a  statement?  Probably  I  did,  for  I  am  sure 
of  the  good  faith — and  would  not  question  the  veracity  of  a  lady,  who  at 
that  time  made  some  notes  for  the  biographer's  use.  But,  for  my  own  con- 
fusion, I  reproduce  this  dedication  in  facsimile:  and  the  whole  extent  of  my 
friend's  linguistic  transgressions  can  be  seen  to  be  thus  limited  to  small  errors 
of  omitted  accents  and  the  like.  Moreover,  may  I  say,  once  for  all,  that  it 
is  far  from  me — though  French  is  almost  my  household  language  and  I  have 
a  kindly  prompter  at  my  elbow — to  throw  stones,  when  another  takes  a  fall 
in  the  gymnastics  of  that  polite  tongue;  for  in  that  respect  I  am  abidingly 
conscious  that  my  house  is  of  glass. 


^  ^  f  ^  (  /t 


4^-v-v-,^^ 


<^^  t 


Aij^x/-e,. 


(J  6^-0 


15  (U-^    \Q&  6 


Facsimile  of  the  Dcdicalioii  to  Mrs.  Low,  1)V  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


RUE   VERNIER  335 

talent  from  finding  favour.  Stevenson's  own  standard 
of  style  was  of  so  exacting  a  nature,  so  much  more  in 
consonance  with  Gallic  requirements  than  with  those 
ordinarily  enforced  in  our  own  tongue,  that  he  never 
seriously  contemplated  writing  in  French.  Often 
enough,  however,  he  would  use  French  terms,  or  note 
their  exactness  of  definition  approvingly,  especially  in 
the  rich  vocabulary  pertaining  to  art  or  literature,  and 
in  like  manner,  more  than  once,  when  discussing  some 
of  his  many  projects  for  stories  or  essays — of  which  he 
had  an  inexhaustible  fund — he  would  break  off  with 
"quite  impossible  in  English.  I  wish  that  I  could 
write  it  in  French." 

We  were  not  always  engaged  in  feasting,  nor  in 
driving  around  Paris,  and  some  of  the  most  interesting 
hours  that  we  spent  together  were  in  the  studio,  which 
had  windows  on  three  sides  and,  lifted  in  the  air  by 
the  library-study  underneath,  nestled  pleasantly  among 
the  branches  of  the  overhanging  trees  in  the  adjoining 
garden.  Here,  while  I  worked,  Stevenson  smoked  his 
thin  wisps  of  cigarettes,  and  we  talked  as  we  had  under 
similar  conditions  among  the  trees  of  Fontainebleau. 
He  was  much  preoccupied  by  a  "Life  of  Wellington," 
which  he  had  undertaken  to  write  as  one  of  a  series  of 
the  "Lives  of  English  Worthies,"  and  much  of  his 
reading  at  that  time  had  been  in  preparation  for  that 
book. 

Unfortunately,  it  was  destined  to  remain  unwritten — 
from  what  circumstance  I  know  not;  but  he  was  full 
of  his  subject,  and  his  many  tales  of  the  Iron  Duke 
made  that  theretofore  conceived  (to  me)  rather  wooden 
— or  iron — hero  wonderfully  living  and  human.     Upon 


336       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

my  own  art  I  had  my  friend  upon  a  ground  of  disadvan- 
tage. It  is  curious  that  in  his  constant  frequentation 
with  painters  in  former  years  he  had  taken  on  so  httle 
tincture  of  their  essential  point  of  view.  I  would  not 
go  so  far  as  Bob  did,  some  time  later,  and  say  that  Louis 
never  looked  at  a  picture  or  statue  except  from  a  literary 
point  of  view,  for  at  times  I  have  seen  him  deeply  im- 
pressed— with  Rodin's  works,  for  instance — by  an  ex- 
pressional  quality  that  is  so  closely  allied  to  technical 
efficiency  that  in  a  complete  work  of  art  the  two  qualities 
are  almost  interchangeable.  In  addition  to  this,  his 
intelligence  had  quickly  appropriated  to  his  uses  the 
ordinary  "patter"  of  art  terms,  so  that  in  this  respect 
he  was  as  well  equipped  as  the  average  "art  critic." 
But  of  love  of  form  and  colour,  with  which  the  painter 
is  chiefly  concerned,  he  had  little  care.  His  treatment 
of  books  as  objects  of  other  than  literary  interest  par- 
took of  this  indifference.  Naturally  he  was  not  devoid 
of  knowledge  or  taste  when  it  was  a  question  of  type, 
paper,  or  margins,  and  was  open  to  the  appeal  of  good 
book-making;  but  he  had  little  of  the  instinctive  love 
for  a  fine  book  irrespective  of  its  contents  that  charac- 
terizes the  amateur,  and  was  even  occasionally  guilty 
of  tearing  a  volume  to  pieces  for  convenience  of  refer- 
ence. 

His  mental  alertness,  however,  often  led  him,  in  the 
company  of  his  artist  friends,  to  questions  concerning  the 
reasons  for  various  technical  expedients;  and  I  remem- 
ber, on  several  occasions  as  he  watched  my  work  that 
summer,  instances  of  this.  He  was  quite  shocked  for 
instance,  when  a  model  with  dark  hair  was  posing, 
to  see  me  deliberately  endow  her  pictured  semblance 


RUE   VERNIER  337 

with  auburn  locks.  "Surely  you're  wrong  to  do  that," 
he  pleaded,  and  my  explanation  that  the  girl's  type  of 
head  suggested  sufficiently  the  character  I  wished  to 
portray,  but  that  for  a  certain  harmony  of  scheme  I 
preferred  to  change  the  colour  of  her  hair,  as  I  had  not 
found  a  model  possessed  of  both  qualities,  only  half 
satisfied  him.  On  another  occasion  he  protested  that 
the  shadows  in  the  face  and  arms  in  another  picture 
were  much  less  marked  than  they  appeared  in  the 
model;  and  again  the  fact  that  the  model  was  posing 
in  the  studio  light,  while  my  picture  necessitated  the 
effect  of  out-of-doors  and  a  more  general  diffusion  of 
light,  did  not,  to  him,  sufficiently  excuse  the  liberties  I 
took  with  the  existing  conditions.  It  was  in  vain  that 
I  cited  similar  liberties  which  he  took  in  his  own  work; 
urging  that  the  original  of  John  Silver  was  only  faintly 
recognizable  in  the  friend,  whose  moral  qualities  he  had 
left  out  when  he  portrayed  that  amazing  character;  for 
through  some  flaw  in  his  perception  he  refused  to  recog- 
nize that  the  law  of  elimination  of  unessential  details 
or  the  addition  of  those  essential  applied  as  much  to 
painting  as  literature. 

Our  conversation  that  morning,  in  deference  to  the 
presence  of  the  pretty  girl  who  was  posing,  had  been 
carried  on  in  French;  and  when,  in  the  heat  of  argu- 
ment, Stevenson  seeking,  from  my  point  of  view,  to 
retrieve  his  utter  defeat,  made  the  jocular  assertion  that, 
if  the  choice  were  given  him,  he  would  prefer  the  original 
to  the  copy  I  had  made,  the  model  with  ready  wit 
curtsied  and  smilingly  responded  that  "it  was  a  thou- 
sand pities  that  another  had  been  before  Monsieur  in 
that  choice,"  and,  with  this  ally  arrayed  against  him. 


338       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

he  was  forced  to  admit  that  the  plastic  arts  had  the  last 
word. 

Concerning  his  own  work,  we  spoke  of  his  avoidance 
of  the  feminine  element  in  his  stories,  and  this  was  one 
of  the  times  when  he  regretted  the  limitations  imposed 
on  writers  in  English.  He  went  on  to  explain  that 
naturally  he  had  no  desire  to  venture  in  subject  or 
character  so  far  as  the  realism  popular  in  France  at 
that  time  had  gone;  but  he  said  that  no  sooner  had  his 
mind  conceived  a  subject  in  which  women  entered, 
than  the  natural  sequence  of  events  and  situations, 
which  the  best  of  women  in  their  relations  to  men  might 
find  in  life,  seemed  fraught  with  danger.  "There  is 
one  standard  imposed  for  the  treatment  of  men  in  liter- 
ature and  a  totally  different  one  for  women  in  our 
modern  English  view,"  he  insisted;  "and  this  false  and 
contradictory  limitation  tends  to  produce  an  illogical 
and  unreal  result  in  the  work  of  art." 

Seraphina,  in  "Prince  Otto,"  I  had  felt  to  be  very 
real,  and  so  I  assured  him,  but  he  pronounced  her 
"thin"  to  his  view;  rather  preferring,  from  the  point 
of  reality,  the  Countess  von  Rosen,  saying:  "You  see, 
I  once  knew  her."  This  was,  of  course,  before  the  days 
when,  more  daring,  he  drew  Catriona  and  created  a 
situation  absolutely  true  to  the  characters  concerned, 
that  in  other  hands  might  easily  have  become  a  source 
of  offence  for  the  traditional  "young  person" — an  ex- 
cellent proof  that  no  convention  can  stifle  the  work  of 
art  that  inevitably  blossoms  when  the  conditions  of 
time,  place,  and  capacity  are  ripe. 


XXVIII 
FIN  D'ETE— 1886 

SO  passed  the  pleasant  days  in  the  rue  Vernier.  At 
the  end  of  a  fortnight  our  friends  announced  that 
they  must  turn  their  faces  homeward.  To  this 
we  demurred,  and  they  agreed  that  Paris  was  most 
kind  to  Stevenson;  that  for  years  he  had  not  been  so 
well;  that  their  lodging  was  satisfactory  and  the  fare 
sufficient.  "Then  why  go.'"'  we  urged.  "Coin,"  was 
the  laconic,  explanatory,  but  unsatisfactory  response. 
But  its  lack,  it  appeared,  was  indeed  the  root  of  the  evil 
of  their  departure. 

Now,  concerning  all  matters  of  money,  as  any  reader 
of  the  "Letters"  may  learn,  my  friend  was  exceedingly 
frank,  but  not  often  accurate.  His  income  from  his 
work  in  these  years,  though  often  calculated  with  a 
mathematical  insight  that  would  have  won  the  admira- 
tion of  Samuel  Budgett,  whose  memory  Stevenson 
revered,  varied  with  each  statement;  and  it  is  doubtful, 
as  his  father  supplemented  his  earnings  whenever 
necessary,  if  he  ever  knew  the  exact  amount  of  his 
income.  A  certain  state  of  fortune,  however,  can  be 
so  easily  verified  by  a  careful  inspection  of  one's  pockets, 
that  we  never  doubted  the  accuracy  of  our  friend's 
statement  that  the  hour  had  struck  when  remunerative 
labour  must  be  assumed  once  more,  and  the  holiday 
ended. 

Here,   however,    as   the   sequel   will   show,   we   were 

339 


340      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

wrono;  to  trust  our  friends.  Some  months  later,  in  a 
schedule  of  expenses,  elaborately  calculated  in  pounds 
sterling,  in  francs,  and  in  dollars  (for  our  uses  in  reach- 
ing Skerryvore),  Stevenson  discovers  "for  the  first  time 
a  reason  (frequently  overlooked)  for  the  singular  costli- 
ness of  travelling  with  your  wife.  Anybody  would 
count  the  tickets  double,  but  how  few  would  have 
remembered — or,  indeed,  has  any  one  ever  remembered 
— to  count  the  spontaneous  lapse  of  coin  double  also  ?" 

In  this  case  the  fault  was  mine  in  so  much  that, 
though  I  realized  that  on  budgetary  questions  my 
friend  was  a  mere  babe  In  the  wood,  I  forgot  the  his- 
toric fact  that  in  the  old  story  there  were  two  babes  in 
the  wood.  Had  I  but  remembered,  I  fancy  that  I 
should  have  been  so  indiscreet  as  to  inquire  closely 
into  the  travelling  fund  with  which  my  friends  had 
left  home,  and  demanded  a  strict  accounting  of  their 
expenditures  before  reaching  the  rue  Vernier.  Since 
their  arrival  there  the  few  purchases  that  they  had 
made  had,  I  knew,  entailed  no  great  disbursement. 

There  would  have  been  ample  warrant  for  this  in- 
discretion, for  my  friends  were  visibly  perturbed,  as 
though  hardly  realizing  their  sudden  discovery  of  the 
"spontaneous  lapse  of  coin,"  and  there  was  possibly 
some  telepathic  transference  of  their  quandary  to 
their  hosts,  for  I  remember  distinctly  that  their  sudden 
resolve  to  leave  us  had  a  tinge  of  mystery,  which  much 
familiarity  with  the  condition  that  was  the  avowed 
reason  of  their  departure,  in  our  common  experience, 
would  hardly  account  for. 

But  it  was  apparently  a  definite  condition  that  faced 
them  for,  at  Stevenson's  request,  I  accompanied  him 


FIN   D'ETE— 1886  341 

to  the  banker  who,  on  my  different  visits  to  Paris,  has 
had  charge  of  my  own  modest  account,  in  order  that  he 
might  draw  a  small  draft  on  England  to  meet  the 
expenses  of  his  return.  The  next  day  we  saw  our 
friends  depart,  even  more  sorry  to  see  them  go  than  we 
had  been  glad  to  welcome  them.  It  was  to  be  a  separa- 
tion of  but  a  few  w^eeks,  for  in  the  autumn  we  had  prom- 
ised to  go  to  Bournemouth,  and  the  hope  of  a  speedy 
reunion  lightened  the  sadness  of  our  farewell. 

The  explanation  of  their  sudden  departure,  and  their 
equally  sudden  discovery  that  they  had  totally  exhausted 
their  reserve  for  the  home  voyage,  only  came  two  years 
after  by  a  chance  remark  of  Stevenson's  mother.  It 
was  here  in  New  York  when  her  son  was  ill  and  de- 
pressed. It  was  the  time  of  which  he  wrote,  concern- 
ing the  work  that  he  did  then,  to  Sidney  Colvin:  "I 
agree  with  you,  the  lights  seem  a  little  turned  down. 
The  truth  is,  I  was  far  through,  and  came  none  too 
soon  to  the  South  Seas,  where  I  was  to  recover  peace  of 
body  and  mind." 

We  were  talking,  the  mother  and  I,  under  the  cloud 
of  this  depression,  when  we  spoke  of  the  visit  to  Paris 
two  years  before. 

"Louis  was  so  well  and  happy  there,"  she  said, 
"that  it  is  a  pity  that  his  absurd  mistake  caused  them 
to  shorten  their  visit."  The  "absurd  mistake"  seemed 
hardly  descriptive  of  the  conditions  that  induced  their 
departure;  and,  finding  that  I  lacked  the  key  to  the 
mystery,  the  mother  gave  me  the  following  explana- 
tion. 

It  appeared  that  there  had  been  question  of  Louis 
joining  his  parents  in  Scotland  in  the  earl}'  summer  of 


342      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

that  year,  a  project  which,  by  the  advice  of  the  doctors 
had  been  abandoned.  Then  had  come  our  invitation, 
which  the  faculty  favoured,  and,  hearing  of  our  friends' 
desire  to  accept  it,  the  elder  Stevenson  had  sent  his  son 
a  cheque  for  a  hundred  pounds,  with  the  message  that 
he  was  to  use  it  on  a  trip  to  Paris.  It  was  this  not  in- 
considerable travelling  fund  which  had  appeared  to  be 
so  suddenly  exhausted,  after  a  fortnight  in  Paris,  where 
they  were  under  no  expense,  except  an  occasional  cab 
and  some  trifling  outlays  in  the  shops. 

Some  time  after,  when  there  appeared  upon  his 
bank  book  a  credit  of  one  hundred  pounds  in  excess  of 
the  amount  against  which  he  had  drawn,  the  father, 
whose  business  habits  were  somewhat  more  thorough 
than  those  of  his  son,  went  over  the  cheques  returned 
from  his  bank,  and  found  that  the  one  sent  Louis  in  the 
early  summer  was  missing.  A  note  of  inquiry  brought 
the  answer  from  Louis  that  the  whole  transaction  was 
present  in  his  memory;  that  it  was  with  this  cheque  that 
he  had  met  the  expenses  of  the  summer  trip.  Further 
insistence  on  the  father's  part  induced  a  thorough 
search  among  his  son's  papers,  and  there  the  cheque  was 
found,  uncashed. 

Of  course  no  sum  had  been  mentioned  in  my  hearing 
at  the  time,  or  the  manifest  absurdity  of  so  great  an 
expenditure,  by  such  modest  travellers  as  were  our 
friends,  would  have  been  patent. 

They  had  simply  spent  what  ready  money  they  had 
happened  to  have  and,  when  that  was  exhausted,  this 
babe  in  the  wood — I  may  transgress  obvious  limita- 
tions, and  say,  these  babes  in  the  wood — had  simply 
wondered  how  one  hundred  pounds  had  vanished  into 


FIN   D'ETE— 1886  343 

thin  air;  and,  while  Stevenson  was  drawing  upon  Lon- 
don to  pay  their  return  passage,  this  cheque,  beautiful 
and  inviolate,  with  all  its  potentialities  of  an  extended 
holiday,  slumbered  in  an  upper  room  of  the  little  house 
in  the  rue  Vernier!  Had  Stevenson  known  that  he  was 
well  able  to  pass  a  month  or  so  more  with  us,  the  relapse 
in  his  health,  from  which  he  suffered  soon  after  his 
return  home,  might  have  been  avoided;  for  the  weather 
remained  favourable  in  Paris  and  the  adjacent  country 
until  late  in  the  autumn  when,  following  his  injunction 
in  the  poem  addressed  to  my  wife  in  the  rue  Vernier,  we 
"trimmed"  our  "escape  from  the  unbeloved  North" 
for  a  winter  in  Italy.  Had  he  stayed  on,  we  might  even 
have  ventured  upon  a  return  to  Barbizon  for  a  few  days, 
in  order  to  complete  our  cycle  of  experiences  in  the 
fortunate  effort  to  revive  the  airs  of  our  youth;  and 
these  recollections  might  have  been  greatly  enriched 
thereby. 

I  have  told  this  intimate  experience  in  some  detail, 
for  it  is  such  a  typical  and  flagrant  instance  of  the 
utter  incapacity  on  the  part  of  Louis  to  deal  with  ques- 
tions of  money,  that  it  explains  many  entanglements 
in  matters  of  business  which  caused  him  much  pain 
and  anxiety;  less  for  the  possible  loss  they  entailed 
— for  I  know  of  but  one  where  profit  to  himself  would 
have  ensued — than  for  the  trouble  that  his  lapses  caused 
others. 

The  record  of  the  summer  would  be  incomplete  with- 
out at  least  brief  mention  of  our  constant  association 
with  our  good  friend  Adrien  Gaudez  and  his  wife  and 
daughter,  "la  petite  Adrienne "  of  those  days,  whose 
present  command  of  English  may,  I  trust,  enable  her 


344      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

to  read  throughout  this  record  a  testimony  of  constant 
affection  for  the  father. 

The  garden  surrounding  their  house  on  the  Boulevard 
d'Argenson  was  filled  with  field  flowers,  my  friend 
having  taken  handfuls  of  the  seeds  of  all  the  hardy 
wild  flowers  and  scattered  them  broadcast  upon  the 
earth,  freshly  prepared,  without  arrangement  of  flower 
beds  or  walks.  There  they  had  prospered,  and  the 
garden  was  a  tangle  ablaze  with  colour,  the  pathway 
meandering  in  and  out  following  the  capricious  order 
of  their  upspringing.  Within  the  flowery  space  we 
passed  many  pleasant  hours  that  summer  and  enjoyed 
many  al  fresco  dinners,  which  the  wise  and  witty  talk 
of  Gaudez  made  memorable.  It  was  unfortunate  that 
the  time  of  Stevenson's  visit  had  coincided  with  the 
absence  from  Paris  o{  la  famille  Gaudez  at  their  summer 
home  on  the  seacoast,  and  so  these  two  old  friends  did 
not  meet,  to  their  mutual  regret.  Upon  their  return, 
after  the  Stevensons' departure,  we  resumed  our  pleasant 
relations,  and  as  our  two  houses  were  but  a  short  dis- 
tance apart,  the  householders  saw  much  of  each  other. 

The  time  of  our  visit  to  Skerryvore  approached  when 
a  complete  change  in  our  plans  was  made  necessary  by 
a  slight  disaster,  liable  to  occur  in  the  most  carefully 
planned  campaign  when  its  operation  is  carried  on  at 
too  great  a  distance  from  the  base  of  supplies.  In  early 
September  I  had  dispatched,  to  the  address  of  my 
publishers  at  home,  a  box  containing  all  my  work  for 
the  summer,  consisting  of  drawings  for  the  new  book, 
the  "Odes  and  Sonnets  of  John  Keats."  The  consular 
certificate,  necessitated  by  our  unjustifiable  and  anti- 
quated law  for  the  protection  of  the  American  artist 


FIN   D'ETE— 1886  345 

(who  for  thirty  years  has  been  petitioning  Congress  to 
remove  its  heavy  hand  and  estabhsh  free  art)  had  been 
procured,  insurance  had  been  effected,  and  the  forward- 
ing had  been  entrusted  to  a  responsible  house  in  order 
to  ensure  safe  and  speedy  transit  for  these  pictures. 
All  this  precaution  apparently  counted  for  little  in  the 
struggle  for  supremacy  with  the  innate  depravity  of 
inanimate  objects,  for  no  sooner  had  the  box  containing 
these  works  left  my  studio  than,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, they  simply  disappeared  from  off  the  face  of  the 
earth  for  a  period  of  four  months.  Letters  and  cable- 
grams crossed  the  ocean,  every  possible  means  of 
inquiry  at  the  point  of  dispatch  and  at  their  destination 
seemed  exhausted,  when,  with  no  better  excuse  than 
that  of  an  unjustified  circular  voyage  from  Paris  to 
Philadelphia  via  Rio  Janeiro,  or  some  equally  indirect 
South  American  port,  they  finally  arrived  in  the  hands 
of  my  publishers. 

This  fortunate  event,  for  no  amount  of  insurance 
would  have  compensated  me  for  their  loss,  as  I  know 
no  task  more  foredoomed  to  failure  than  an  effort  to 
repeat  work  once  before  conceived  and  executed,  did 
not  occur  until  January,  by  which  time  I  had  gone  to 
Italy. 

Meanwhile  consternation  reigned  in  the  rue  Vernier; 
the  lease  of  the  house  expired  on  the  first  of  October, 
and  as  the  apparent  loss  of  my  work  entailed  delay  and 
changes  in  the  form  of  remittances  on  which  I  had 
counted,  a  journey  to  Skerryvore  was  not  to  be  thought 
of,  and  instead — as  it  must  have  figured  so  often  in  the 
history  of  art  for  the  past  century — Barbizon  offered 
itself  as  an  appropriate  retreat  for  the  impecunious. 


346      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

Consequently  for  more  than  a  month,  during  which 
my  comphcated  affairs  were  duly  regulated,  we  were 
once  more  guests  at  the  Hotel  Siron.  We  had  paid  a 
brief  visit  to  Barbizon  in  the  spring,  a  mere  call  in  pass- 
ing; and  though  the  circumstances  that  brought  us 
there  were  for  all  the  time  of  our  stay  perplexing  and  a 
cause  for  very  serious  anxiety,  I  was  not  sorry  in  an- 
other sense  to  renew  my  memories  of  the  place.  It 
had  changed  externally  but  little,  though  only  one  of 
the  men  of  my  time  remained  at  the  hotel  and  a  few 
more  who  were  still  residents  of  the  village.  One  of 
these  last  was  my  old  friend  Babcock  who,  true  to  his 
inability  to  realize  the  passage  of  time,  called  from  his 
studio  in  the  upper  story  in  response  to  my  knock  at 
the  door  of  his  house,  naming  myself  at  the  same  time 
as  had  been  my  custom  eight  years  before.  "Oh,  it's 
you.  Air.  Low,  come  right  up  to  the  studio."  This 
without  the  slightest  inflection  of  surprise,  though  I 
might  have  dropped  from  the  moon  for  all  he  knew. 
Nor,  when  he  welcomed  me  cordially,  in  the  well- 
remembered  studio,  which  also  showed  no  mark  of  the 
passage  of  time,  was  there  surprise  at  my  appearance 
or  the  slightest  curiosity  concerning  the  duration  of  my 
absence  apparent  in  his  manner.  I  saw  my  self- 
centred  friend  often  during  my  stay  in  Barbizon  and 
endeavoured  to  excite  his  interest  in  home  affairs,  but 
the  only  recollection  that  he  had  of  his  native  land  went 
back  to  1847,  and  that — half  shudderingly — he  refused 
to  dilate  upon,  save  to  evince  a  certain  measure  of  sym- 
pathy for  my  unhappy  lot  in  dwelling  there. 

The  Millets,  mother  and  son,  still  dwelt  in  the  house 
where  the  great  painter  had  lived  and  died,  and  with 


FIN  D'ETE— 1886  347 

them  it  was  peculiarly  interesting  to  renew  acquaint- 
ance. On  the  morning  of  our  first  visit  Madame 
Millet  stopped  before  a  large  rose  bush  in  the  garden 
and,  plucking  one  of  the  deep-red  flowers  to  give  my 
wife,  told  us  how  years  before,  her  husband,  on  the 
return  from  one  of  his  visits  to  Paris,  had  brought  the 
tiny  slip,  which  he  had  planted  and  tended  so  carefully 
that  it  flourished  and  was  the  pride  of  the  garden. 
"My  husband  was  always  proud  of  these  roses,"  she 
said,  "and  now  when  they  bloom  each  year  I  recall  his 
delight  when  its  first  flowers,  'his  roses,'  he  called  them, 
appeared." 

A  few  days  after  Francois  Millet  asked  me  if  I  could 
remember  a  large  blank  canvas  which  had  always 
stood  against  the  wall  of  the  studio  in  his  father's  time. 
My  own  recollection  was  not  definite,  but  the  son  went 
on  to  tell  me  that  from  his  earliest  childhood  this  can- 
vas had  stood  there,  thickly  covered  over  with  a  coat 
of  paint  of  some  neutral  colour,  and  that  his  father  had 
often  pointed  it  out  in  jest  as  a  warning  against  undue 
ambition. 

It  had  happened,  shortly  before  the  fall  of  Louis 
Philippe  in  1848,  that  Millet  had  received  a  commission 
from  the  Ministry  of  Fine  Arts,  for  which  he  was  to 
be  paid  so  large  a  sum  of  money  that  it  had  appeared 
to  him  almost  impossible  that  one  of  his  works  could 
be  of  enough  value  to  deserve  it.  Two  thousand  francs 
— less  than  four  hundred  dollars — was  the  agreed 
amount,  and  the  modest  painter  had  procured  a  large 
canvas  and  began  a  composition  of  two  life-sized 
figures,  representing  Hagar  and  Ishmael.  The  work 
progressed    slowly,   the   over-anxious   artist,    intent    on 


348       A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

giving  full  value  for  this  large  sum,  was  in  doubt  as  to 
its  merit  when,  in  addition  to  the  political  troubles  of 
the  time,  cholera  broke  out  in  Paris  and,  alarmed  for 
the  safety  of  his  little  family.  Millet  desired  to  leave 
the  city  and  find  a  safe  place  of  refuge  in  the  country. 

The  only  way  apparently,  of  procuring  the  means  of 
flight  was  to  finish  his  Hagar,  when  some  of  his  friends 
insisted  that  he  should  offer  a  smaller  picture,  already 
finished,  in  its  place.  The  Administration  of  Fine 
Arts  consented  willingly  to  the  substitution,  and  it  was 
with  the  money  received  from  this  picture  that  Millet 
and  his  family  sought  Barbizon,  to  stay  until  order  and 
healthful  conditions  were  restored  in  Paris.  That  this 
brief  stay  was  extended  to  the  remainder  of  his  life  is 
already  known.  Some  time  after  his  installation  in 
Barbizon  Millet,  in  a  moment  of  dissatisfaction  with 
his  nearly  completed  Hagar  and  Ishmael,  covered  over 
the  canvas  with  a  uniform  tone  of  colour,  with  the 
intention  of  painting  some  other  subject  upon  it;  and 
for  the  rest  of  his  life  (and  for  ten  years  after  his  death) 
it  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  studio,  an  object-lesson,  in 
the  painter's  estimation,  of  the  folly  of  undertaking  too 
great  a  task. 

Of  this  story,  which  I  recognized  as  having  already 
heard,  Francois  now  reminded  me,  and  then  went  on 
to  tell  me  its  sequel.  The  previous  winter  one  of  his 
brothers,  the  architect,  Charles  Millet,  if  I  recollect 
rightly,  had,  while  convalescing  from  an  illness,  passed 
some  months  in  the  old  home.  Lookino-  about  for 
something  to  occupy  his  time,  he  had  undertaken  to 
disinter  the  long-lost  Hagar  and  Ishmael  from  under 
the  surface  of  earth-coloured  pigment  which  had  hid- 


FIN   D'ETE— 1886  349 

den  them  like  the  sands  of  the  desert  for  nearly  forty 
years.  It  was  a  task  requiring  great  patience  and  no 
little  skill.  But  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  this  story, 
Francois  Millet  conducted  me  to  the  old  studio  where 
the  recovered  picture  was  on  view,  I  saw  that  it  had 
been  accomplished  most  patiently  and  skilfully.  It 
was  an  impressive  picture,  one  for  which  every  lover 
of  Millet's  work  owes  gratitude  to  the  painter's  son 
for  the  filial  piety  which  presided  over  his  work  of 
restoration.  In  its  richness  of  colour  and  the  romantic 
type  of  the  mother's  figure  there  was  a  strong  reminder 
of  the  painter's  earlier  manner,  but  there  was  much 
that  gave  evidence  of  the  graver  sentiment  with  which 
in  later  years  his  production  was  endowed.  The 
picture  was  not  finished,  but  so  evenly  had  it  apparently 
progressed  up  to  the  time  of  its  relinquishment,  there 
was  a  resulting  unity  of  impression  and,  perhaps  from 
its  method  of  recovery,  a  suggestive  charm  that  can  so 
often  be  felt  in  Italy  before  half-faded  frescoes — often 
like  this,  works  which  have  been  hidden  from  sight  by 
an  obliterating  wash  of  colour,  and  recovered  in  a 
similar  manner. 

It  was  a  strange  experience  to  stand  in  the  studio 
where,  thirteen  years  before,  I  had  been  privileged  to 
see  the  great  painter  for  the  first  time,  and  to  see  this 
work,  virtually  fresh  from  his  hand,  though  he  had 
been  sleeping  quietly  in  the  churchyard  at  Chailly  for 
more  than  ten  of  these  thirteen  years.  It  was  a  fitting 
close  to  my  previous  memorable  visits,  for  but  a  few 
years  after,  Madame  Millet,  through  a  series  of  un- 
fortunate occurrences,  was  obliged  to  leave  the  home  in 
which  she  had  passed  the  greater  part  of  her  married 


350       A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

life;  and  the  house  and  studio  were  greatly  changed, 
and  to-day  possess  but  little  of  the  distinctive  character 
they  retained  during  the  residence  of  the  painter's 
family. 

Of  other  renewed  memories  of  this  sojourn  I  have 
already  told  in  previous  pages,  for  I  made  it  my  pleasant 
duty  to  see  all  my  old  peasant  friends.  At  the  hotel 
there  were  few  changes,  except  that  the  painters  who, 
as  in  my  student  days,  were  lingering  before  returning 
to  Paris  for  the  winter,  held  to  the  scene  of  their  summer 
labour  by  the  beauty  of  the  autumnal  colour,  were  nearly 
all  strangers.  Theodore  Robinson  was  present,  and  one 
other,  an  Englishman  who,  from  before  my  time,  had 
always  been  looked  upon  as  a  more  or  less  temporary 
guest  at  Siron's.  He  would  absent  himself  for  long 
periods,  would  be  heard  from  as  having  finally  settled 
in  the  South  of  France  or  elsewhere,  and  then  would 
suddenly  make  his  reappearance  in  Barbizon.  On  this 
visit  we  found  him  at  the  head  of  the  table,  announcing 
his  final  decision  to  roam  no  more.  "What  is  the  use," 
he  asserted;  "here  I  can  sit  at  Siron's  table  in  Bar- 
bizon and,  sooner  or  later,  every  mortal  soul  that  I 
care  to  see  comes  along.  I've  seen  most  of  the  things 
I  have  any  interest  in  elsewhere,  but  if  I  want  to  see 
anything  more,  Barbizon  is  near  enough  the  centre  of 
Europe  for  me — I  never  want  to  see  your  country — and 
the  P.  L.  M.*  will  take  me  anywhere."  Later  this 
typical  "snoozer,"  as  we  had  dubbed  the  contented 
residents  of  the  village,  built  himself  a  handsome  house 
in  Barbizon,  and  there  he  lived — and  died,  as  I  heard 
only  the  other  day. 

*  p.  L.  M.,  Paris,  Lyons  et  Mediterranee — the  railroad  of  that  name. 


FIN  D'ETE— 1886  351 

We  had  elected  residence  in  the  annex  to  the  hotel 
built  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  where  we  had  a 
room  and  a  studio,  which  I  had  occupied  in  my  youth, 
and  crossed  the  way  to  the  hotel  for  our  meals.  It  was 
pleasant  enough  to  sit  under  the  time-  and  smoke- 
embrowned  panels  on  the  walls  and  be  served  with 
just  about  the  same  food,  though  the  wine  had  certainly 
deteriorated  (unless  taste  had  changed),  by  the  younger 
generation  of  Sirons.  Of  the  elders,  both  were  in  evi- 
dence, the  pere  Siron  a  shade  more  bulky,  not  perceptibly 
more  ornamental,  and  quite  as  useless  as  in  the  earlier 
time;  and  his  spouse,  aged  and  with  something  of  a 
shriller  voice,  but  as  capable  and  energetic  as  of  yore, 
lamenting  the  slipshod  manner  in  which  her  juniors,  to 
whom  she  had  ostensibly  resigned  the  cares  of  govern- 
ment, conducted  the  hotel.  As  it  was  still  impossible  for 
me  to  determine  whether  all  my  summer's  work  was  lost, 
I  had  determined  to  continue  on  my  way  to  Italy,  and, 
if  obliged  to  replace  it,  to  make  an  entirely  new  series 
of  drawings  under  new  influences.  Meanwhile  I 
worked  on  a  number  of  decorative  borders,  designs  for 
lining  papers,  and  the  like,  which  were  to  be  features 
of  my  new  book  in  any  case,  while  waiting  for  the 
arrangement  of  a  satisfactory  financial  basis  on  which 
to  prosecute  my  work.  During  the  beautiful  autumn 
weather  we  made  many  excursions,  through  the  forest 
and  across  the  plain,  to  outlying  villages;  and  Arbonne, 
with  its  simple  but  handsome  church,  and  Fleury,  with 
its  moated  chateau,  where  the  cipher  of  the  great  Riche- 
lieu can  still  be  seen  worked  in  the  ornamental  iron- 
work on  the  chimneys,  were  again  revisited. 

And  here,  to  play  once  more  a  few  bars  on  the  penny 


352      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

whistle  In  praise  of  friendship,  came  a  letter  from  one 
whose  modesty  I  shall  respect  by  omitting  his  name  here. 
I  had  written  home  to  him  just  before  leaving  Paris, 
describing  our  plans  for  a  winter  in  Italy,  and  had 
added  (much  in  the  spirit  of  the  too-good-to-be-true) 
half  jestingly,  that  if  he  was  the  man  I  took  him  to  be, 
he  would  pack  his  trunk  and  join  us.  On  the  whole, 
I  was  more  pleased  than  surprised  to  receive  a  letter  in 
return,  saying  that  by  the  steamer  following  he  would 
be  with  us;  and  the  too-good-to-be  becoming  true  for 
once,  a  week  after  he  was  in  Barbizon. 

These  pleasing  incidents  did  much  to  lighten  the  only 
shadows  that  obscured  a  pleasant  summer,  filled  with 
the  unusual  experience  of  finding  the  realities  of  a  long- 
anticipated  attempt  to  renew  old  relations  and  cement 
them  for  longer  duration,  of  deeper  and  truer  import 
than  their  anticipation.  In  this  frame  of  mind,  after  a 
farewell  visit  to  the  Chateau  of  Fontainebleau,  on  a 
day  when  nature  was  doing  her  best  to  make  the  forest 
and  the  park  around  the  noble  building  beautiful  and 
create  a  certain  regret  at  leaving  la  belle  France^  we  set 
out  for  Italy. 


XXIX 
LONDON— EN  PASSANT 

THE  impression  of  a  first  visit  to  Italy,  a  sojourn 
of  eight  months  in  Florence,  and  the  myriad 
sentiments  evoked  to  one  who  journeyed  there  as 
to  a  land  w^hich,  by  means  of  every  procurable  photo- 
graph, book,  or  recital  from  those  who  had  made  the 
journey,  he  already  knew,  only  to  find — as  all  who  go 
thither  in  the  right  spirit  may  also  experience — that 
the  impressions  of  reality  are  always  better  than  those 
of  anticipation,  would  fill  a  book.  This  I  have  no 
intention  of  writing,  let  me  hasten  to  say;  and  the  win- 
ter there,  though  it  looms  large  in  my  private  collection 
of  pictured  memories,  may  be  passed  over.  Likewise, 
no  more  than  mention  need  be  made  of  a  hurried  return 
by  an  all-night  journey,  to  go  directly  from  the  train 
and  mingle  once  more  in  the  crowd  at  the  vernissage 
of  the  Salon;  and  a  subsequent  ten  days  of  Paris  in 
which  farewells  were  said,  and  the  hope  expressed 
(and  in  the  event  realized)  for  a  shorter  interval 
between  visits  than  the  one  drawins  to  a  close.  Our 
faces  were  turned  homeward,  and  the  deferred  visit  to 
Skerryvore  was  to  mark  the  first  stage  of  the  return 
journey. 

It  had  not  proved  possible  to  include  Bob  in  the 
reunion  of  the  previous  summer,  but,  as  our  journey 
was  to  take  us  through  London,  we  looked  forward  to 
meeting  him  with  an  eagerness  which  the  memories  of 

353 


354      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

previous  years  intensified,  now  that  our  desire  was  on 
the  point  of  fulfilment. 

We  were  newly  arrived  at  Charing  Cross  and,  having 
put  up  at  the  caravansary  contiguous  to  the  station, 
were  removing  the  traces  of  travel  when  word  came 
that  Bob  awaited  us  below.  We  were  not  long  in 
joining  our  friend  who,  accompanied  by  his  wife,  thus 
took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  meeting  us. 

There  was  no  shock  of  strangeness  in  meeting  Bob 
beyond  that  of  seeing  him  attired  as  a  conventional 
citizen  of  London  town;  I  believe  that  he  had  even 
donned  a  high  hat  in  honour  of  the  occasion;  so  that 
within  a  very  few  minutes  we  were  deep  in  a  resumption 
of  intercourse  that  might  only  have  been  interrupted  a 
few  hours  before.  Again  the  long  alienation  from  a 
common  existence  threw  us  back  upon  the  firm  ground 
of  our  earlier  friendship,  and  all  the  years  of  struggle 
to  gain  a  place  in  life,  under  conditions  that  differed  so 
greatly  that  one  was  ignorant  of  the  detail  of  the  other's 
solution  of  the  problem,  vanished  and  made  us,  grown 
men,  each  with  a  certain  hold  on  our  time  and  en- 
vironment, youths  once  more.  After  our  first  eager 
exchange  of  inquiry  and  comment,  the  hour  of  dinner 
had  arrived,  and  as  what  I  presume  to  be  the  solid 
English  comfort  of  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel  promised 
little  to  the  newly  arrived,  and  quite  visibly  held  but 
slight  appeal  to  our  friends,  we  resigned  ourselves  to 
their  guidance  for  a  quiet  place  where  we  could  talk 
while  dining. 

The  place  was  found,  somewhere  around  Leicester 
Square,  modest,  somewhat  dingy,  and  quite  appro- 
priately French.     It  was  our  intention  to  stop  but  a 


LONDON— EN   PASSANT  355 

day  in  London  and,  after -our  visit  to  Skerryvore,  to 
return  for  a  short  stay  before  sailing  from  Liverpool. 
But  it  soon  transpired  that  our  visit  to  Skerryvore  must 
be  given  up.  We  learned  that  on  the  day  preceding 
our  arrival  the  summons — which,  however  prepared  it 
may  find  us,  always  comes  as  a  dolorous  surprise — had 
come  to  Louis  to  hasten  to  Edinburgh  if  he  would  see 
his  father  alive.  Louis  and  his  wife  had  thus  hastened 
northward,  where  the  elder  Stevenson,  with  whom  all 
the  differences  of  his  son's  youth  had  long  given  place 
to  the  most  entire  affection,  lay  dying — arriving  only  on 
the  eve  of  his  death. 

Months  afterward  we  learned  that,  as  the  guardian 
of  her  husband's  health,  our  friend's  wife  had  pur- 
posely avoided  letting  us  know  of  their  summons,  in 
the  hope  that  we  might  continue  our  journey  to  Skerry- 
vore, and  thus  constitute  a  reason  to  abridge  their  stay 
in  the  dangerous  city  of  Stevenson's  birth.  Her  fears 
were  but  too  well  grounded,  for,  as  no  call  for  their 
return  came  from  Bournemouth,  Louis  lingered  too 
long  in  the  house  of  mourning  where,  having  caught  a 
severe  cold  on  his  way  there,  and  not  having  been 
allowed  to  be  present  at  his  father's  funeral,  he  lay 
desperately  ill  until  the  end  of  May. 

Ignoring  the  service  that  we  might  have  rendered 
by  continuing  our  journey,  though  doubtless  Louis 
would  not  have  been  strong  enough  to-  return  at  once 
to  Bournemouth,  our  plans  once  more  fell  about  our 
ears,  and  with  Bob  we  began  at  once  to  rearrange 
them  for  a  longer  sojourn  in  London. 

I  knew  the  city  but  little,  and  it  was  my  wife's  first 
visit  there,  so  that  we  were  literally  in  the  hands  of  our 


356      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

friends.  As  Charing  Cross  is  in  the  centre  of  London, 
Bob  declared  that  it  was  miles  from  every  one  and 
everywhere,  and  suggested  an  instant  departure  from 
the  hotel.  I  had  made  some  inquiries  of  Louis  some 
time  before,  in  view  of  a  possible  month  in  London, 
which  the  need  of  my  presence  in  New  York  had  made 
inexpedient,  and  had  received  this  characteristic  reply: 

"...  There  are  piles  of  decent  inns,  and  in  none, 
I  believe,  does  political  opinion  run  high.  Were  you 
to  stay  a  week  or  two,  the  cheapest  way  is  lodgings; 
a  man  or  a  man  and  his  wedded  spouse  can  have  damn 
bad  rooms,  including  a  private  sitting-room,  for  a  pound 
— 5  dollars — 25  francs — and  the  devil  knows  how  many 
thalers,  roubles,  or  doubloons — a  week.  In  the  same 
spot  he  can  be  supplied  with  inferior  vittles  to  the  tune 
of  ditto,  or  say  one  pound  (or  the  answerable  propor- 
tion of  dollars,  francs,  thalers,  roubles,  asses,  lire, 
zwanzwigers,  moidores,  etc.)  a  week.  But  I  don't 
know  the  reasonable  inns.     I  will  try  and  find  out." 

Viewed  in  the  light  of  practical  information  this 
leaves  much  to  be  desired,  and  I  was  to  find  that,  with 
many  other  amiable  qualities  which  Bob  shared  with 
his  cousin,  he,  too,  was  but  a  slender  reed  to  lean  upon 
in  matters  practical. 

Had  we  been  left  to  ourselves,  we  should  have  turned 
to  Baedeker  for  relief,  but,  early  the  next  morning. 
Bob  appeared,  accompanied  by  Henley,  and  assumed 
charge  of  the  strangers  within  their  gates.  Two  four- 
wheelers  were  procured,  and  on  these  our  luggage  was 
hoisted  and,  personally  conducted  by  our  friends,  we 
set  forth  in  one  of  the  carriages,  followed  by  the  other, 
in  quest  of  a  place  to  lay  our  heads. 


LONDON— EN  PASSANT  357 

We  finally  landed  before  a  small  house  of  Henley's 
holding,  in  what  I  was  informed  was  Shepherd's  Bush. 
We  had  been  absent  from  home  for  over  a  year  and, 
though  as  experienced  travellers  we  pride  ourselves  on 
journeying  with  but  little  luggage,  we  had  for  our  return 
voyage  five  or  six  trunks.  "Are  those  what  you  call 
'Saratogas'?"  Bob  inquired  dubiously,  when,  after 
creating  a  certain  excitement  in  the  quiet  neighbour- 
hood, they  had  all  been  deposited  in  Henley's  front 
hall,  which,  being  of  small  proportion,  they  filled  most 
generously.  "Now,"  he  added  cheerfully,  "we'll  find 
you  lodgings  in  a  jiffy."  Alas,  my  slender  reed!  We 
would  stop  before  a  house,  and  Bob  would  opine  that 
so-and-so  lived  there  three  years  gone — but  no,  it  was 
in  the  next  square.  Then  we  visited  strange  places, 
impossible  places,  while  the  cheerful,  cosey  room  with 
the  tea-kettle  singing  on  the  hob — it  was  May,  but 
chilly — seemed  more  and  more  a  work  of  English 
fiction.  In  one  place  the  condition  that  the  landlady's 
dauo-hter  should  be  admitted  to  the  sitting-room  two 
hours  a  day,  for  her  piano  practice,  seemed  reasonable 
to  Bob;  at  another  his  effort  to  convince  his  friend, 
by  measuring  with  his  cane,  that  a  bed,  not  much 
above  the  proportion  of  a  cofl'in,  was  ample  for  two 
fairly  portly  people  was  more  enthusiastic  than  per- 
suasive. 

After  covering  miles  in  this  fruitless  quest  we  re- 
turned to  Henley's  house,  where  the  more  capable 
member  of  my  family  took  our  guide,  philosopher  and 
friend  under  her  direction  and  soon  came  back  tri- 
umphant, having  found  very  decent  lodging  in  the 
immediate    nei(i;hbourhood;     a    natural    result,  -  as    the 


358       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

perfidious  Bob  declared,  of  "knowing  what  you  wanted 
when  you  saw  it." 

These  lodgings  were  truly  in  the  centre  of  things, 
being  about  midway  between  the  apartment  of  Bob 
and  the  house  of  Henley;  and  the  trifling  disadvantage 
of  a  ten-mile  ride  on  the  Underground  to  reach  any 
other  object  of  interest,  counted  for  little,  although, 
after  one  trial  of  the  "vittles"  at  our  lodging,  and 
finding  that  Louis'  qualification  was  but  too  well 
justified,  we  were  obliged  to  make  this  journey  when- 
ever we  lacked  an  invitation  to  dinner.  The  hospitality 
of  our  friends  rendered  recourse  to  restaurants  in- 
frequent, however,  and,  as  the  lady  of  my  family  was 
much  interested  in  questions  of  the  household,  the 
opportunity  to  study  typical  English  family  life  was 
eagerly  welcomed,  independently  of  the  sentimental 
attractions  of  our  kind  reception.  A  few  months  later, 
when  this  student  of  economic  conditions  based  some 
general  conclusions  on  her  observations  at  that  time, 
I  regret  to  say  that  Louis  gave  way  to  the  most  un- 
seemly hilarity  at  the  thought  of  Bob  or  Henley  in  the 
character  of  the  typical  British  householder.  But, 
whatever  these  establishments  may  have  lacked  of 
conventionality,  was  more  than  made  up  by  the  good 
feeling  that  reigned  in  both,  and  in  that  of  Bob  es- 
pecially, where  a  girl  child,  rejoicing  in  the  name  of 
"Pootles"  radiated  joy  that  was  not  less  deeply  felt 
by  her  parents  because  its  appreciation  was  whimsical 
and  humorous. 

Superficially,  Bob  was  somewhat  changed,  un- 
doubtedly. In  the  earlier  days  he  had  worn  his  heart 
upon  his  sleeve  and,  in  the  awakening  from  his  specu- 


LONDON— EN   PASSANT  359 


lative  dream  of  life  and  in  the  assumption  of  its  every- 
day responsibilities,  the  daws  had  pecked  him  to  such 
purpose  that  much  of  his  former  buoyancy  had  given 
place  to  a  subdued  and  slightly  apprehensive  manner. 

But  experience  gained  in  rubbing  against  his  fellow- 
men  in  the  struggle  for  existence  had  left  Bob,  after 
all,  less  dismayed  than  puzzled;  and,  in  his  settled  con- 
viction, there  was  more  of  wonder  at  the  prizes  for 
which  men  fought  than  fear  that  he  had  missed  some- 
thing worth  having,  or  regret  that  his  share  was  not 
larger.  He  had  always  deplored  ambition,  holding 
that  no  man  mounted  higher  without  trampling  another, 
perhaps  as  worthy  and  only  less  self-centred,  under 
foot.  Now  he  maintained  consistently  that  he  wisely 
limited  his  effort  to  the  amount  of  work  necessary  to 
the  needs  of  his  little  family,  and,  having  in  this  the 
acquiesence  of  its  only  other  member  who  had  arrived 
at  years  of  discretion,  the  appeals  of  his  friends  to 
extend  his  influence  and  achieve  the  position  to  which 
his  talents  entitled  him,  fell  on  a  deaf  ear.  It  is  a 
notable  instance  of  his  constant  depreciatory  attitude 
to  his  work  that,  some  years  later,  he  described  to  me 
his  then  unpublished  "Art  of  Velasquez,"  as  a  "little 
book  that  he  had  written  to  accompany  a  few  reproduc- 
tions of  the  master's  pictures,"  conveying  the  impression 
that  it  was  mere  hack  work,  instead  of  the  most  illumi- 
nating insight  to  a  painter's  achievement  known  to  Eng- 
lish letters. 

Perhaps  it  was  simply  finding  him  industrious  "as 
never  before,"  that  implied  a  change,  for  to  the  "touch 
of  friendship"  he  was  as  responsive  as  ever.  Now  that 
the  barrier  of  the  Atlantic  and  imposed  communication 


360       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

by  letter  was  removed,  he  was  still  of  all  men  the  one 
to  sit  down  with  and  take  a  discursive  excursion  over 
the  territory  of  life.  Here  his  talk  was  as  pregnant  as 
ever,  parting  from  premises  assumed  or  received,  it  mat- 
tered little  which  for  the  resulting  lucidity  of  his  deduc- 
tion, and  progressing  easily,  digressing  only  the  degree 
necessary  to  clear  all  ambiguity  along  the  way,  to  a 
conclusion  that  was  wholly  persuasive,  until  he  would 
retrace  his  steps  and  temperately  urge  its  contrary  in 
an  equally  convincing  manner. 

This — we  few  who  remember  these  gymnastics  with 
the  thrill  of  stiffened  athletes,  however  timorous  may 
have  been  our  own  performance  at  the  dizzy  heights 
where  our  agile  friend  conducted  us,  owe  his  memory 
this  testimony — was  entirely  without  pretence  of  making 
talk  or  talking  well.  In  his  view  his  were  the  common- 
place thoughts  common  to  all  men,  and,  if  indeed  he 
ever  considered  himself  as  one  at  all  apart  from  others, 
it  was,  we  may  be  certain,  with  a  measure  of  self-reproach 
that  he  should  be  voluble  where  others  were  more 
wisely  reticent. 

In  lesser  matters  my  friend  was  the  reverse  of  prac- 
tical, the  variety  of  possible  solutions  of  minor  problems 
left  him  undecided  and  hesitating  between  them.  His 
Gallic  friend  was  an  omnivorous  reader  of  Dickens, 
having  in  her  girlhood  read  his  works  in  translations, 
and  later,  having  acquired  our  tongue,  remained  a 
faithful  admirer.  Having  a  strong  sense  of  local 
colour,  she  had  been  somewhat  disappointed  upon  our 
arrival  in  London  that  we  had  not  put  up  at  some 
quaint  inn,  with  a  plump  head-waiter  and  a  cheery 
landlady.     The  White  Hart,  where  Mr.  Pickwick  and 


LONDON— EN   PASSANT  361 

Sam  Weller  met,  was  probably  too  much  to  be  hoped 
for;  but  to  stop  first  at  a  prosaic  railway  hotel,  and 
then  go  to  lodgings,  where  the  local  colour,  on  close 
inspection,  proved  to  be  of  a  kind  mainly  removable  by 
soap  and  water,  was  a  disillusion  that  was  saddening. 
In  her  distress  she  turned  to  Bob,  and  reminded  him  how, 
in  the  old  Paris  days,  he  had  been  eloquent  in  descrip- 
tion of  the  good  old  English  inns,  of  their  comfort,  of 
the  huge  barons  of  beef  served  on  their  tables,  the  care- 
ful inspections  of  the  larder,  and  the  selection  of  the 
succulent  chop,  that  was  grilled  adjacent  to  your  table 
and  served  piping  hot  by  an  obsequious  but  paternal 
waiter.  All  this,  and  more,  was  echoed  from  the  past 
into  Bob's  perplexed  ear,  and  he  was  commanded  to 
produce  instanter  these  vaunted  comforts  of  the  British 
Isles. 

The  scene  was  Trafalgar  Square,  at  dusk,  as  we — 
in  a  manner  characteristic  of  this  narrative — were  in- 
tent on  dinner.  The  helplessness  of  Bob  was  pathetic. 
Yes,  he  was  certain  that  there  were  such  places;  he 
had  not  imagined  them;  had  even  known  them  at 
some  past  time,  but  now — and  then  he  apparently  in- 
terrogated Nelson  on  his  column,  but  that  warrior  was 
mute,  and  so  he  turned  to  Henley.  He  gave  him  no 
help,  declaring  that  all  the  decent  food  in  England  was 
French  in  preparation,  and  that  the  Cafe  Royal,  or 
Verrey,  sufficed  for  his  wants. 

I  believe  that  we  finally  compromised  on  Simpson's 
in  the  Strand,  where  at  least  the  huge  roast-beef, 
wheeled  to  the  table,  and  carved  by  the  head-waiter, 
was  typically  English;  though  there  Bob  lamented  the 
changes  that  had  taken  place  since  his  youth,  changes 


362      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

which  have  been  progressive,  so  that  on  our  last  visit 
to  London  this  earlier  experience  seemed,  in  contrast 
to  existing  conditions,  to  be  quite  Pickwickian  in  char- 
acter. In  the  vast  city  we  naturally  saw  the  sights  that 
tourists  see  in  company  with  one  or  the  other  of  our 
friends,  nearly  all  at  least,  for  one  of  us  refused  to  be 
taken  to  Madame  Tussaud's  or  the  Tower,  so  that 
these  historic  monuments  are  void  in  our  memories. 
To  another  Monument  we  went  often — though  why  I 
should  couple  it  with  Madame  Tussaud's,  I  know  not, 
except  that  Louis  always  called  the  British  Museum  by 
that  name. 

There  are  many  wonderful  works  of  art  in  England, 
but  none  there  or  elsewhere  so  great  as  the  marbles 
from  the  Parthenon  shown  in  this  great  Museum;  and 
no  matter  how  faithfully  one  may  have  studied  the 
casts  taken  from  them,  there  breathes  from  the  glo- 
riously tinted  surfaces  of  these  great  figures  the  sense 
of  a  life  nobler  than  actual  existence — a  life  latent 
since  the  dawn  of  time  and  slumbering  since  the  exile 
of  the  gods — of  which  no  image  or  replica  of  these 
very  gods  gives  more  than  a  faint  semblance;  and,  as 
one  stands  before  them,  their  beauty  fairly  evokes  a 
fear  lest  they  should  wake  to  put  to  shame  our  poor 
humanity. 

An  extremely  pleasant  encounter  in  London  was  with 
one  of  the  old  friends  of  the  Paris  days  who,  by  the 
roundabout  way  of  Italy,  had  finally  settled  in  his  native 
land,  where  his  reputation  as  an  artist  is  now  firmly 
established.  This  friend  in  his  very  early  youth  had 
crossed  the  Atlantic,  had  drifted  over  much  of  our 
Western  territory,  and  had  resided  in  California  for  a 


LONDON— EN   PASSANT  363 

few  years  before  seeking  in  Paris  the  solid  foundation 
of  his  present  achievement.  These  early  years  had 
strongly  tinctured  his  character  and,  from  the  vantage 
of  his  very  comfortable  situation  in  England,  he  w^as 
wont  to  proclaim  that  the  only  life  really  worth  living 
was  that  of  a  cowboy  on  our  plains. 

Our  short  sojourn  in  London  was  at  the  time  of  the 
first  visit  there  of  our  eminent  compatriot  Buffalo  Bill 
with  his  troupe,  and  much  of  our  friend's  time  was 
spent  in  viewing  the  performances  that  brought  back 
to  his  memory  the  life  that  he  knew  and  consistently 
regretted.  The  one  cloud  on  the  horizon  of  our  mu- 
tual pleasure  in  meeting  once  more  was  my  total  igno- 
rance of,  and  possibly  consequent  lack  of  enthusiasm 
for,  the  cowboy.  It  fell,  that  in  order  to  escape  the 
direful  Sunday  of  London,  we  had  chartered  in  his 
company  and  with  our  other  friends  a  large  open 
wagon  to  convey  us  to  Hampton  Court.  This  was 
under  the  personal  conduct  of  a  gentleman  with  an 
extraordinary  bell-crowned  glazed  hat,  a  wart  on  his 
nose,  and  a  command  of  the  language  of  the  road  that, 
so  far  as  we  could  understand  it,  seemed  calculated  to 
win  us  the  right  of  way  over  a  coronation-coach.  He 
was  at  least  enough  like  a  member  of  the  Weller  family 
to  satisfy  the  love  of  local  colour  of  the  Dickens  en- 
thusiast, and  our  whole  journey  to  Hampton  Court, 
upon  a  road  encumbered  with  countless  'Arry's  and 
'Arriet's,  was  a  typical  and  amusing  outing. 

Once  under  the  famous  avenue  of  Bushy  Park,  we 
sacrificed  to  the  gods  of  antiquity,  and  were  not  the 
least  interested,  as  we  were  certainly  not  the  least 
reverential,  of  all  the  throng  of  which  we  formed   a 


304      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

part.  Walking  in  the  pleasant  garden  my  transplanted 
Californian  of  English  birth  grasped  my  arm.  "There, 
look,"  he  said,  labouring  under  strong  excitement;  and 
there,  in  the  haunts  of  Bluff  King  Harry  stalked,  under 
wide-brimmed  sombreros,  with  leathern  leggings  and 
clanking  spurs,  two  compatriots — two  cowboys.  When 
I  had  finally  convinced  my  friend  that  I  had  been  obliged 
to  journey  to  these  historic  shades  to  meet  my  first  cow- 
boy, the  scorn  lavished  on  one  who  had  so  wilfully 
neglected  the  opportunities  of  his  birthright,  beggars 
description. 

This  was  our  last  pleasant  assembly.  We  returned 
by  a  devious  way,  stopping  for  the  afternoon  tea,  which 
seems  so  natural  in  England  and  so  artificial  elsewhere, 
at  a  pretty  inn  by  the  way,  and  reaching  London  late 
and  dinnerless.  We  were  a  large  party,  quite  large 
enough  to  try  the  resources  of  a  more  considerable 
householder  than  Bob,  but  he  bade  us  to  come  and  try 
our  luck.  It  was  the  maid's  day  out,  but  perhaps  she 
had  left  something,  and  if  not,  we  could  all  journey 
further  and  find  sustenance  elsewhere.  On  these  con- 
ditions we  invaded  their  small  apartment,  to  find  a 
table  laden  with  a  huge  piece  of  cold  roast  beef,  a  salad 
likewise  generous,  and  various  accompaniments  of  sub- 
stantial enough  character  to  be  welcome  to  appetites 
whetted  by  a  day  in  the  open  air.  Our  hosts  seemed 
as  gratefully  as  we  were  agreeably  surprised,  and  Bob 
and  his  wife  expressed  a  warm  appreciation  of  the 
character  of  the  absent  maid  who,  they  both  insisted, 
was  alone  responsible  for  the  generous  repast  which, 
to  one  who  knows  London  on  Sunday,  or  the  menace 
of  the    distance  from  Blythe  Lane,  Kensington,  to    a 


LONDON— EN  PASSANT  365 

restaurant,  only  problematically  open  on  that  day,  took 
on  a  veritable  life-saving;  character. 

I  have  since  realized  that  there  were  British  house- 
holders more  capable  than  some  of  their  relatives  w^ere 
wont  to  paint  them. 

The  next  day  we  were  joined  by  the  friend  who  had 
passed  the  winter  in  Italy  in  our  company,  and  who  had 
lingered  behind  as  we  passed  through  Paris,  and  two 
days  after  we  set  our  course  homeward  with  a  parting 
thought  for  Louis  in  the  North,  of  sympathy  for  his 
sorrow  and  apprehension  for  the  outcome  of  his  pros- 
tration, not  yet  knowing  that  before  the  summer  was 
past  he  would  rejoin  us  in  New  York. 


XXX 

THE  SECOND  COMING  OF  R.  L.  S. 

WITH  all  that  Europe  held,  with  all  the  renewed 
ties  that  were  again  temporarily  severed,  with 
almost  the  sense  of  stepping  out  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  so  strongly  had  the  winter  in  Florence  taken 
possession  of  the  homecomer,  the  sight  of  New  York 
was  welcome.  The  spire  of  Trinity  Church  still 
dominated  the  town,  for  it  had  not  in  1887  been  en- 
gulfed by  the  skyscrapers,  and  the  well-known  land- 
mark called  him  back  to  new  labours,  even  as  it  had 
sent  him  forth  in  1873  filled  with  hopes  and  ambitions. 
Wyatt  Eaton  met  us  at  the  landing.  By  his  kindly 
forethought,  and  his  characteristic  desire  to  serve  his 
friends,  our  modest  quarters  on  Washington  Square, 
which  we  had  retained  during  the  year's  absence,  were 
prepared  for  our  reception;  and  upon  the  plea  that  our 
welcome  should  not  be  impaired  by  recourse  to  a  res- 
taurant, he  bore  us  away  to  dinner  at  his  studio,  where 
his  talent  for  preparing  a  steak  over  the  coals  in  his 
grate  was  brought  into  play,  and  where  the  home- 
comers  had  much  to  share  with  him  in  the  memories 
of  their  travel.  In  the  interval  of  this  narrative  Eaton 
had  returned  to  Europe,  had  passed  about  a  year  at 
Barbizon  in  1884,  and  the  following  winter  in  Florence. 
In  one  of  his  letters  received  when  we  in  turn  were 
there,  I  find:  "You  know  how  anxious  I  was  to  have 
you  go  to  Italy;    and,  now  that  you  are  really  there,  I 

366 


THE   SECOND   COMING   OF   R.  L.  S.    3G7 

feel  as  though  some  of  my  fond  hopes  were  being  real- 
ized, and  in  a  certain  way  as  if  I  were  living  over  again 
my  own  life  in  Florence.  .  .  .  How  perfect  it  is  for 
you  to  have  Faxon  with  you.  I  was  in  hopes  that 
Robinson  would  also  be  of  the  party.  I  need  not  tell 
you  how  much  I  would  like  to  be  with  you;  but  not 
being  able  to  do  it  does  not  make  me  unhappy  .  .  . 
for  it  will  add  to  my  pleasure  in  having  been  there  when 
you  come  back,  and  for  the  rest  of  our  lives  we  can  talk 
over  the  treasures  of  Florence." 

"For  the  rest  of  our  lives";  alas,  the  earth  has  covered 
Eaton  since  1896,  leaving  the  memory  of  one  of  the 
most  amiable  and  simplest  souls  that  it  has  ever  borne. 
His  work,  like  that  of  so  many  of  the  men  of  our  time, 
never  reached  its  full  fruition,  though  he  was  able  to 
produce  a  few  notable  pictures,  achieved  at  intervals 
when  ill  health  and  insufficient  recognition  permitted 
him  a  breathing  space  and  allowed  him  to  do  his  best. 
These  few  works  are  rightly  treasured  by  their  pos- 
sessors, who  in  some  cases  have  acquired  them  at  prices 
which  would  have  enabled  their  multiplication,  had  the 
artist  received  more  than  a  tithe  of  the  value  they  have 
attained  since  his  death.  In  the  latter  }'ears  of  his  life 
he  went  to  Montreal,  literally  driven  from  New  York 
by  fickle  fortune;  for,  as  I  have  already  told,  he  had 
met  with  some  success  here  for  a  time  after  his  return 
from  his  studies  in  Europe,  and  from  there,  where  he 
was  not  overfortunate,  he  returned  in  the  summer  of 
1896,  to  die  at  Newport,  R.  I. 

There  was  no  forecasting  of  the  future,  however,  that 
evening  in  Washington  Square,  nor  in  the  days  follow- 
ing, when  life  in  that  pleasant  corner  of  our  city  was 


368       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

resumed.  When  all  the  tales  of  travel  were  told, 
when  work  had  been  resumed,  there  yet  remained  much 
to  think  over  of  the  happy  year  abroad.  Indeed,  ex- 
periences of  after  years  and  of  acquired  knowledge  of 
the  world  lead  me  to  think  that  I  was  rarely  fortunate 
to  find  in  every  case  my  friends  of  youth  improved  in 
circumstances  and  in  character.  I  had  left  them  when 
all  the  problems,  whose  solution  gives  a  man  his  place 
in  the  world,  were  undecided;  and  without  exception 
fate  and  fortune  had  treated  them  kindly.  The  divinity 
that  had  shaped  the  course  of  destiny  for  one  of  them, 
had  done  so  without  consulting  his  wishes;  but,  though 
at  the  time  we  could  not  know  that  in  spite  of  his  wilful 
lack  of  ambition  he  would  nevertheless  leave  a  work 
that  the  most  ambitious  might  envy,  even  he  had  found 
compensation  outside  the  work  he  was  doing  for  miss- 
ing the  more  brilliant  future  that  his  friends  had  proph- 
esied for  him.  Some  such  thoughts  as  these  ran  in 
my  mind  until  they  took  the  unwonted  form  of  verse; 
verse  which  fairness  to  my  friend,  whose  essay  In  French 
poetic  form  I  have  ruthlessly  copied  some  pages  back, 
makes  it  incumbent  on  me  to  include  here. 

TO  R.  A.  M.   s. 

Of  Pegasus  in  harness,  so  'tis  said, 
That,  when  at  night  his  weary  form  he  laid 

In  close-locked  stable  on  a  straw-strewn  bed, 
Down  a  slant  moonbeam  came  a  Uttle  maid. 


Close  to  his  side  she  nestled,  snug  and  warm, 
His  head,  his  mane,  his  plumed  wings  she  stroke, 

With  soft  caress,  and  many  a  childish  charm, 
Her  love,  her  faith;   all  lisping  wise  she  spoke. 


THE   SECOND   COMING  OF   R.  L.  S.    369 

God-like  and  proud,  thought  he,  my  former  state, 
When  through  the  clouds  in  starry-ways  T  strayed; 

Now  poor  my  lot  and  mean  is  mine  estate: 
Yet,  other  time  lacked  I  this  little  maid. 

It  seems  strange  to  exhume  these  Hnes  from  among  my 
papers,  where'  they  have  lain  dormant  these  twenty 
years,  and  flaunt  them  for  the  first  time  before  other 
eyes,  for  they  were  never  sent  to  him  to  whom  they  were 
addressed,  nor,  for  some  curious  and  unusual  reticence 
on  my  part,  were  they  ever  shown  to  Louis.  I  had, 
nevertheless,  ample  justification  for  venturing  this 
ordeal,  for  one  of  my  friend's  whimsicalities  was  to 
urge  me  to  make  excursions  into  the  realms  of  verse; 
and  I  have  heard  from  more  than  one  of  our  friends 
quotation  of  his  ex  cathedra  judgment  that  I  was  a  mute 
inglorious  Milton.  Perhaps  it  was  to  retain  this  flatter- 
ing belief  on  his  part  that  I  refrained  from  showing  him 
this  unique  effort! 

Enough  has  been  said  of  the  changes  effected  in  the 
restricted  circle  of  artist  life  in  the  nine  years  that  had 
elapsed,  counting  from  the  writer's  first  return  from 
Europe,  to  show  that  it  was  no  longer  to  a  strange  city 
that  this  second  homecoming  was  directed.  In  the 
constant  frequentation  common  to  the  men  of  that  time 
there  was  much  kindly  intercourse,  and,  what  was  more 
valuable  in  a  productive  sense,  much  friendly  interest 
in,  and  critical  consideration  of,  each  others'  work. 
These  conditions  the  writer  essayed  to  put  to  profit; 
first,  to  complete  the  second  of  the  books  illustrated  by 
his  drawings  for  the  poems  of  Keats,  and  then  to  take 
advantage  of  whatever  artistic  success  they  brought 
him  to  quit  the  field  in  which  this  success  was  gained; 


370       A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

and  to  put  by  illustration  in  black  and  white  in  favour 
of  work  in  colour.  He  has  never  regretted  this  step, 
and  (for  the  guidance  of  youth  once  more)  he  would 
willingly  counsel  others  to  do  likewise  to-day. 

For  the  life  of  the  illustrator  is  of  short  duration. 
The  established  reputation  of  any  artist  in  our  fickle 
country  has  at  best  so  little  in  common  with  the  dreams 
of  avarice,  that  his  continued  activity  must  be  pur- 
chased by  an  expenditure  of  prescient  energy,  watchful 
of  changing  conditions,  unknown  to  the  arts  of  long- 
established  tradition  in  older  countries. 

Such  resourceful  adaptation  of  temperamental  ex- 
pression can  be  made  without  loss  of  dignity  or  sub- 
servience to  transitory  popular  demands;  but  the 
changes  in  the  public  demand  for  the  illustrator's  work 
are  so  rapid  that  the  most  agile  and  versatile  talent 
soon  finds  itself  outstripped  in  the  race. 

There  are  comparatively  few  born  illustrators,  the 
majority  of  our  men  have  been  trained  as  painters  and 
drift  into  illustration,  because  of  all  the  branches  of  art 
it  is  the  one  most  founded  upon  a  commercial  basis  of 
demand  and  supply,  and  entrance  therein  is  compara- 
tively easy  for  the  young  artist  without  fortune,  reputa- 
tion, or  powerful  friends.  Its  demands  to-day  are  but 
little  short  of  the  most  exclusive  of  our  exhibitions; 
and,  since  the  advent  of  reproduction  in  colour,  many 
of  the  pages  of  our  magazines  demand  but  little  change 
to  prove  most  acceptable  to  our  exhibitions,  where  the 
dearth  of  pictures  of  human  interest — which  is  the  key- 
note of  all  illustration — is  most  keenly  felt.  Conse- 
quently, if  a  word  of  mine  may  induce  any  of  our  men 
to  use  illustration  as  a  means  to  his  longer  productive 


THE   SECOND  COMING  OF   R.  L.  S.    371 

activity,  rather  than  as  the  end  of  his  effort,  it  shall  be 
said;  for  all  experience  shows  that  the  popular  illus- 
trator of  to-day  is  not  only  forgotten  to-morrow,  but  as 
the  man  survives  he  finds  that  the  welcome  his  first 
work  receives  is  more  quickly  turned  to  disfavour  than 
in  any  other  branch  of  art. 

Fear  of  waning  favour  was  not  alone  the  reason  for 
the  writer's  desertion  of  the  work  to  which  he  owed  his 
first  success,  so  much  as  an  inborn  love  of  decoration; 
and,  as  up  to  that  time  stained  glass  had  not  proven  to 
be  of  enough  commercial  value  to  inspire  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  great  business  houses,  which  to-day  furnish 
memorial  windows  in  assorted  sizes  and  stereotyped 
subjects,  he  found  work  in  that  congenial  field, 
awaiting  the  advent  of  mural-painting  whose  promise 
could  be  felt  in  the  air,  but  whose  eclosion  lingered. 
Meanwhile  upon  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic  the 
changed  conditions  of  Louis  Stevenson's  life,  the  death 
of  his  father  permitting  him  to  leave  England,  and  the 
weary  battle  for  better  health  in  which  he  was  gradually 
losing  ground,  all  contributed  to  a  decision,  on  his  part, 
to  make  a  desperate  effort,  and  seek  in  another  climate 
a  renewal  of  strength  which  the  older  land  denied  him. 

Since  his  visit  to  Paris  one  prostration  had  followed 
another,  and  it  must  have  been  with  the  spirit  of  the 
leader  of  a  forlorn  hope  that  he  wrote  the  following 
letter: 

"Skerryvore,  Bournemouth, 

''August  6,  1887. 
"My  Dear  Low: 

"We — my  mother,  my  wife,  my  step-son,  my  maid- 
servant and  myself,  5  souls — leave,  if  all  is  well,  Aug. 


372      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

20th  per  Wilson  line  S.  S.  Ludgate  Hill.  Shall  prob- 
ably evade  N.  Y.  at  first,  cutting  straight  to  a  watering 
place:  Newport,  I  believe,  its  name.  Afterward  we 
shall  steal  incognito  into  la  bonne  ville^  and  see  no  one 
but  you  and  the  Scribners,  if  it  may  be  so  managed. 
You  must  understand  that  I  have  been  very  seedy  in- 
deed, quite  a  dead  body;  and  unless  the  voyage  does 
miracles  I  shall  have  to  draw  it  dam  fine.  .  .  .  Till 
very  soon,  Yours  ever,  R.  L.  S." 

The  editor  of  "Scribner's  Magazine"  can  hardly  have 
forgotten  the  7th  of  September,  1887,  for  it  was  that 
day  that  we  had  received  news  that  the  Ludgate  Hill 
was  off  Fire  Island  and  would  dock  that  afternoon;  and 
it  was  in  his  company  that  I  went  to  meet  Stevenson. 
It  seemed  quite  in  character  that  the  steamer,  which 
had  none  of  the  smartness  of  the  modish  liners,  should 
be  boarded  by  means  of  a  ship's  ladder,  and  "  Stevenson, 
ahoy!"  seemed  the  most  appropriate  greeting  for  my 
friend.  We  found  him  on  deck,  and  all  his  thoughts  of 
stealing  into  the  good  city  incognito  must  have  been 
rudely  shattered,  for  he  was  already  surrounded  by  a 
dozen  reporters. 

Qne  of  these,  in  fact,  having  learned  that,  in  his  own 
estimation  he  was  merely  an  obscure  British  author, 
whose  views  could  have  but  little  interest  for  the  public, 
had  the  eff'rontery  to  warn  him,  on  our  approach,  to 
"look  out  for  those  fellows;  they  represent  the  Asso- 
ciated Press,  and  they'll  worm  all  your  secrets  out  of 
you. 

To  my  intense  relief  the  voyage  had  indeed  "done 
miracles."     The  ship  had  proved  to  be  one  after  his 


THE   SECOND   COMING   OF   R.  L.  S.    373 

own  heart,  a  veritable  Noah's  Ark,  laden  with  "stalHons 
and  monkeys,  and  matches"  (these  last  slightly  incon- 
gruous to  the  simile);  but  withal  enjoyable  to  the  last 
degree  as  he  enthusiastically  informs  his  cousin  Bob. 

"I  was  so  happy  on  board  that  ship,  I  could  not  have 
believed  it  possible.  We  had  the  beastliest  weather 
and  many  discomforts,  but  the  mere  fact  of  its  being  a 
tramp-ship  gave  us  many  comforts;  we  could  cut  about 
with  the  men  and  officers,  stay  in  the  wheel-house,  dis- 
cuss all  manner  of  things,  and  really  be  a  little  at  sea. 
And  truly  there  is  nothing  else.  I  had  literally  forgotten 
what  happiness  was,  and  the  full  mind — full  of  external 
and  physical  things,  not  full  of  cares  and  labours  and 
rot  about  a  fellow's  behaviour.  My  heart  literally 
sang;   I  truly  care  for  nothing  so  much  as  for  that." 

The  voyage  coming  "  after  a  most  nefast  experience 
of  despondency  before  I  left"  had  rekindled  his  interest 
in  life,  and  he  trod  the  deck,  chaffing  the  reporters 
gently,  welcoming  the  representative  of  his  American 
publishers,  who  later  was  to  become  his  friend;  pre- 
senting us  to  his  mother,  who  was  destined  also  to  be- 
come very  dear  to  my  wife  and  me;  and  to  his  step-son, 
whom  I  had  last  seen  at  Grez  in  the  character  of  "petit 
feesh";  in  a  word,  doing  the  honours  of  the  occasion 
with  the  spirit  and  gallantry  of  the  skipper  of  a  spanking 
clipper. 

The  preliminaries  of  landing  were  soon  over,  the  only 
delay  being  caused  by  Stevenson's  scrupulous  desire 
to  declare  some  trifling  trinkets,  which  he  brought  as 
presents,  to  the  lone  customs  officer  who  had  been  de- 
tached for  the  service  of  the  Ludgate  Hilly  who  was 
quite  visibly  bored  by  this  excess  of  virtue  and  received 


374      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

the  few  dollars  of  duty  with  an  air  of,  "  Nobody  asked 
you,  sir,  she  said." 

I  remained  behind  to  arrange  for  the  transfer  of 
their  luggage,  and  the  whole  party  repaired  to  a  hotel, 
where  everything  had  been  arranged  for  their  reception 
by  their  kind  friends,  whose  guests  they  were  to  be  at 
Newport  a  few  days  after. 

When  in  my  turn  I  arrived  at  the  hotel  the  excitement 
of  the  arrival  had  told  on  Stevenson,  and  he  was  lying 
down,  looking  pale  and  wan.  He  insisted,  however, 
on  seeing  Mrs.  Low,  who  had  joined  me,  and  we  talked 
for  a  time  together.  A  number  of  reporters  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  hotel,  and  they  were  very  considerate 
when  I  went  to  them  and  explained  that  it  was  really 
impossible  for  my  friend  to  receive  them,  and  gave  them 
what  little  information  I  could.  I  had  hardly  returned 
to  his  side  when  a  card  was  brought  up,  and  Stevenson, 
on  reading  a  few  lines  pencilled  thereon,  exclaimed, 
"I  must  see  this  one;  for  he  says  that  he  is  a  Scot,  from 
my  own  town."  And  so  in  a  few  moments  a  fresh- 
faced  youth,  with  a  Scottish  burr  on  his  tongue,  was 
ushered  in,  and  Stevenson  had  no  sooner  learned  that 
he  was  a  student  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and 
familiar  with  the  conditions  and  scenes  of  his  own  boy- 
hood, than  he  was  deep  in  reminiscences;  and  it  was 
far  more  due  to  the  kind  forbearance  of  the  reporter 
than  to  any  recollection  on  the  part  of  Stevenson  of  his 
necessity  of  rest  from  excitement  that  the  interview 
was  not  unduly  prolonged.  After  a  day's  rest  Steven- 
son and  his  kin  proceeded  to  Newport.  An  incipient 
cold  that  he  had  caught  off  the  Banks  now  declarecf 
itself,  and  he  had  no  more  than  a  glimpse  of  the  beauti- 


THE   SECOND  COMING  OF   R.  L.  S.    375 


ful  resort  and  Its  noble  surroundings,  for  he  was  ill  the 
few  days  he  spent  there,  an  illness  greatly  assuaged  by 
the  solicitous  hospitality  of  the  friends  under  whose  roof 
he  sojourned. 


XXXI 
A  HALT  BEFORE  SARANAC 

UPON  their  return  from  Newport  we  had  arranged 
quarters  for  our  friends  in  a  quiet  hotel  in 
Eleventh  Street,  near  University  Place.  Here  in 
the  early  morning  and  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  work 
was  done,  I  would  come,  to  be  with  Louis  and 
to  aid  his  watchful  family  against  encroachments 
on  his  of  necessity  imposed  privacy.  There  were 
two  difficulties  in  the  way  of  preserving  a  desirable 
amount  of  seclusion  lest  his  partial  improvement  in 
health  should  suffer  relapse.  The  first  was  his  own 
delight  in  human  companionship  and  interest  in  the 
new  life  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  Any  plea  that 
was  at  all  unusual,  or  promised  some  quality  of  interest 
in  the  visitor,  found  a  warm  partisan  in  the  designated 
victim;  and  the  watchers  by  his  bedside  were  often 
obliged  to  battle  with  his  imprudence  before  the  intru- 
sion was  denied.  The  second  was  the  volume  of  the 
enthusiasm  that  his  presence  in  New  York  created,  and 
the  number  of  those  who,  actuated  by  mere  curiosity 
or  more  avowable  motives,  desired  to  meet  the  author 
of  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde." 

It  was  this  one  of  his  already  numerous  works  that 
was  responsible  for  the  popular  character  of  his  recep- 
tion, for  naturally  his  more  authorized  visitors  knew  his 
other  books.  But  the  Jekyll  had  touched  the  popular 
heart,  and  dozens  of  "pirated"  editions,  for  this  was 

376 


A  HALT  BEFORE  SARANAC     377 

before  the  day  of  international  copyright,  had  sown  this 
popularity  broadcast.  Never  was  there  a  more  puzzled 
man  than  this  suddenly  popular  author.  "I'm  just  an 
obscure  'literary  gent'  at  home,"  was  his  plaint,  "and 
this  wave  of  notoriety  frightens  me.  It  cannot  mean 
much  from  some  of  its  indications;  and  what  if  I  should 
grow  to  like  it .?" 

His  letters  to  his  friends  at  home  are  all  tinged  with 
this  mingled  wonder  and  fear,  as  well  as  his  deprecia- 
tion of  some  of  the  more  substantial  evidences  of  his 
popularity,  shown  by  the  offers  made  for  his  work. 
One  of  these,  from  a  popular  newspaper,  proposing 
that  he  furnish  an  article  every  week  for  a  year,  and 
offering  ten  thousand  dollars  as  his  honorarium,  he 
characterized  as  "positively  immoral." 

As  it  was  considerably  more  than  his  whole  life  work 
had  brought  him,  it  might  have  tempted  a  less  con- 
scientious artist,  but  his  refusal  showed  no  hesitation; 
and  in  general,  after  the  first  shock  of  surprise,  all  the 
manifestations  of  his  sudden  popularity  left  him  cold. 
The  dramatization  of  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde," 
done  by  Mr.  Russell  Sullivan,  was  produced  for  the  first 
time  soon  after  his  arrival;  and  though,  having  met  the 
author  of  the  adaptation,  he  was  much  interested  in  the 
play,  it  was  not  judged  prudent  that  he  should  be 
present.  His  deprivation  of  sharing  the  public  honours 
of  the  occasion  caused  him  no  apparent  regret.  In  his 
place  I  escorted  his  wife  and  mother,  and  the  latter, 
wearing  her  widow's  cap,  of  an  English  fashion  such  as 
is  familiar  in  the  portraits  of  Queen  Victoria,  was  con- 
spicuous in  the  box  where  we  were  seated.  At  the  con- 
clusion of  the  piece,  after  many  curtain  calls  for  Mans- 


378      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

field,  who  acted  the  titular  role,  rose  the  cry  of  "Author, 
author,"  and  the  eyes  of  the  whole  audience  were  di- 
rected to  our  box,  where  I  stood  directly  behind  the 
ladies.  There  was  naturally  no  response,  but  the 
clamour  continued,  until  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me 
that  I  was  taken  for  the  author,  whereupon  I  inconti- 
nently subsided  from  sight  on  the  floor  of  the  box. 
In  one  of  the  newspapers  the  next  morning  was  the 
note:  "The  author,  who  was  present,  was  acclaimed 
by  the  audience,  but  for  some  reason  refused  to  re- 
spond," which  amused  my  friend  when  he  read  it. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  much  of  the  character,  much 
of  the  courage,  and  much  of  the  cheerfulness  of  Louis 
came  from  his  mother.  The  father  I  never  saw,  but  of 
him  we  know  that  in  many  other  traits  the  son  was  in- 
debted to  his  side  of  the  house.  When  we  first  met  the 
elder  Mrs.  Stevenson  the  change  from  Heriot  Row  and 
the  severance  of  life-long  habits  to  New  York  and  the 
customs  here  prevailing,  might  naturally  have  been 
thought,  with  a  woman  no  longer  young,  likely  to  breed 
if  not  discontent,  at  least  discouraging  comparison. 
There  was  naught  of  this,  but,  on  the  contrary,  a  never- 
failing  interest  and  apparent  delight  in  the  novel  condi- 
tions. She  was  pleased  with  everything:  with  our  ice- 
water  and  our  "lifts," with  the  attention  lavished  on 
her  son,  with  the  reporters,  "a  nice  bright  set  of  men" 
(echoing  Louis'  opinion);  and  it  soon  became  a  sort  of 
game  with  us  to  present  the  most  novel  aspects  of  our 
customs  and  manners  for  her  consideration,  without 
once  eliciting  more  than  a  mild,  "how  curious,  but  I 
dare  say  there's  some  reason  for  it." 

None  of  us  foresaw  then  in  what  strange  lands,  and 


A  HALT  BEFORE  SARANAC     379 

among  what  barbaric  surroundings,  her  faithful  steps, 
keeping  pace  with  her  son's  wanderings,  would  take 
her;  but  it  is  certain  that  never  once  did  she  fail  to 
share  her  boy's  interest  in  all  the  strange  lands  and 
strange  sights  that  they  encountered.  In  the  photo- 
graphs sent  back  from  the  cruise  of  the  Casco,  by  which 
Louis  kept  us  informed  of  their  wanderings,  it  is  in- 
describably touching  to  see,  where  all  the  others  of 
their  party  are  seated  on  the  ground  and  in  a  sense  in- 
distinguishable from  their  savage  hosts,  the  demure 
Scotch  lady,  seated  erect  in  a  chair,  wherever  procurable, 
spick  and  span,  as  though  newly  issued  from  her  Edin- 
burgh home  for  an  afternoon  visit  to  a  friend  of  her  own 
social  rank,  and  coiffed  by  the  widow's  cap  which  be- 
came her  so  well.  This  cap  she  carried,  I  have  been 
told,  even  on  journeys  in  an  open  boat  around  the 
islands,  in  a  box,  ready  to  don  on  the  first  occasion  of 
ceremony;  and  it  may  well  be  imagined  that  her  placid 
dignity  must  have  received  its  due  meed  of  appreciation 
from  all  the  ceremony-loving  monarchs  of  the  South 
Seas. 

Several  times  during  their  sojourn  at  Saranac  the 
mother  came  to  New  York  and  mingled  in  our  mild 
gayeties  and  those  of  other  friends  of  her  son;  to  say 
nothing  of  those  she  had  made  for  herself,  who  were 
numerous.  She  had  a  keen  sense  of  humour,  and  her 
conversation,  without  any  pretension  of  brilliancy,  for 
one  of  her  most  charming  traits  was  a  modest  assump- 
tion of  surprise  that  she  should  be  the  mother  of  so 
brilliant  a  son,  was  always  interesting.  Later,  to  an- 
ticipate, alone  and  unattended  she  twice  voyaged  half- 
way around  the  globe  in  order  that  she  might  be  of 


380      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


service  to  her  family  at  home.  One  of  these  voyages 
brought  her  again  to  New  York  where,  unchanged,  and 
forgetful  of  every  discomfort  that  she  had  met  with  in 
her  travels,  only  the  interesting  and  humorous  episodes 
remained  in  her  memory,  and  were  recounted  for  her 
home-keeping  friends,  with  the  pleasant  Scotch  intona- 
tion of  her  voice,  recalling  that  of  Louis's. 

But  to  anticipate;  by  all  the  years  in  the  South  Seas, 
where  Louis  "was  to  recover  peace  of  body  and  mind," 
until  his  final  rest  upon  the  hill-crest  above  Vailima, 
the  most  abiding  memory  of  the  mother  is  that  of  a 
few  days  in  Edinburgh  in  the  summer  of  1895. 

Following  her  son's  death,  there  were  other  duties 
awaiting  her  at  home  near  her  sister,  the  beloved 
"Auntie,"  whose  skirts,  in  the  "Child's  Garden  of 
Verses": 

"...   trail  behind  her  up  the  floor, 
And  trundle  after  through  the  door." 

This  lady,  through  an  accident  in  her  girlhood,  when 
she  was  thrown  from  a  horse,  was  nearly  blind  and 
quite  deaf;  but,  though  seeing  little  and  hearing  less, 
the  indomitable  family  characteristics  endowed  her  with 
courage  and  cheerfulness,  some  part  of  which  she  com- 
municated to  others.  In  Mrs.  Stevenson's  family 
circle,  including  that  of  her  brother,  "that  wise  child, 
my  uncle,"  Dr.  George  Balfour,  who  had  come  to  me 
some  years  before  in  New  York,  en  route  to  a  medical 
congress  in  Canada,  with  a  note  from  Louis,  there  was 
a  succession  of  days  that  have  left  pleasant  memories. 
The  most  impressive  of  these,  however,  are  the  hours 
that  I  spent  with  the  mother.     I  had  looked  to  find  her 


A  HALT  BEFORE  SARANAC     381 

broken,  the  pride  and  joy  of  her  Hfe  being  gone.  But 
the  dear  lady,  supported  by  her  faith,  for  she  was  pro- 
foundly religious,  though  more  in  action  than  in  words, 
awaited  her  reunion  with  Louis  in  cheerful  patience, 
busying  herself  meanwhile  with  the  well-being  of  those 
about  her.  The  presence  of  her  son  seemed  to  be  with 
her,  for  there  was  a  definite  sensation  as  we  talked — 
she  almost  more  cheerfully  than  at  first  I  could  com- 
mand myself  to  do — that  he  was  still  near  us.  With 
gentle  pride  she  enumerated  the  many  tokens  of  the 
love  which  he  had  inspired,  that  had  been  manifested 
since  his  death,  and  the  tributes  to  his  worth  as  an 
artist,  which  comforted  her  greatly  and  filled  to  some 
little  degree  the  solitude  of  her  bereavement. 

I  have  never  seen  a  great  sorrow  so  nobly  borne,  for 
I  can  think  of  no  other  word  to  qualify  her  attitude, 
though  it  was  quite  devoid  of  stoical  fortitude;  there 
was  nothing  of  the  Spartan  mother  to  be  felt;  but  her 
simpler  nature,  accustomed  throughout  life  to  extract 
some  measure  of  pleasure  from  every  duty,  had  reached 
a  serene  altitude  where  she  visibly  felt  that  her  reward 
was  near,  if  to  the  last  she  remained  faithful  to  the  task 
of  the  day. 

There  was  at  the  time  a  definite  project  for  an  illus- 
trated edition  of  the  "Child's  Garden  of  Verses,"  for 
which  I  was  to  make  the  drawings  in  pursuance  of  an 
earlier  plan  that  Louis  had  proposed,  and  for  which  he 
had  sent  me  advance  proofs  of  the  book  before  it  was 
first  issued  in  England,  ten  years  before.  This  had 
been  found  to  be  impossible  at  that  time,  but  the 
project  had  come  up  more  than  once  in  our  talks,  and 
now  that  he  was  gone,  I  was  more  than  ever  anxious  to 


382       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

link  my  name  with  his.  To  all  my  plans  for  this  book 
the  mother  listened  with  the  greatest  interest,  and  made 
suggestions  in  their  extension  that  would  have  greatly 
added  to  the  value  of  the  work.  Together  we  visited 
a  number  of  the  scenes  of  my  friend's  childhood,  for  it 
was  my  desire  to  incorporate  as  much  of  biographical 
truth  as  possible  in  the  work;  and  though  I  was  called 
away  at  the  end  of  the  week,  I  left  with  the  intention  of 
returning  later  in  the  summer,  and  with  her  assistance 
reconstituting  as  much  as  possible  the  child-life  of  Louis, 
by  visiting  and  making  drawings  of  all  the  scenes  com- 
memorated in  the  verses. 

Like  so  many  of  his  own  projects,  circumstances 
arose  to  prevent  this  work  being  undertaken;  but, 
from  this  partial  voyage  of  rediscovery  in  the  company 
of  my  friend's  mother,  and  from  the  details  of  his  child- 
hood, which  our  talks  brought  back  to  her,  I  carried 
away  an  impression  of  having  once  more  been  very 
near  to  him;  and,  above  all,  added  memories  of  a  sweet 
and  brave  woman. 

I  have  gone  far  afield  in  my  desire  to  give  a  more 
complete  picture  of  the  elder  Mrs.  Stevenson,  esteeming 
it  a  privilege  to  have  known  her  and  glad  that  our  affec- 
tion for  Louis  had  proved  a  sufficient  bond  to  ensure 
her  friendship  from  the  first  days  of  their  sojourn  in  the 
little  hotel  in  Eleventh  Street,  where  we  may  now  return. 

At  the  time  of  their  arrival  in  this  country  the  ultimate 
destination  of  Stevenson  was  still  in  doubt.  Colorado 
had  been  the  place  the  most  seriously  considered  as 
possessing  a  climate  that  promised  amelioration,  if 
not  a  cure  for  him;  but  the  journey  thither  was  held  to 
be  fraught  with  danger,  in  the  weak  condition  where 


A  HALT  BEFORE  SARANAC     383 

the  relapse  after  the  ocean  voyage  had  left  him.  Dr. 
Trudeau's  presence  at  Saranac,  and  the  cures  that  had 
been  effected  there,  were  brought  to  the  notice  of  Stev- 
enson; and,  as  his  case  admitted  of  no  delay,  the 
younger  Mrs.  Stevenson  and  Lloyd  Osbourne  volun- 
teered to  go  at  once  to  see  if  a  house  could  be  found 
there,  in  case  the  resident  physician  advised  the  coming 
of  Louis. 

Consequently  they  departed,  and  Louis  w^as  left  in 
the  care  of  his  mother,  and  such  distraction  from  his 
illness  as  his  condition  permitted  he  found  in  her  com- 
pany and  in  that  of  friends  near  at  hand.  As  usual,  it 
was  difficult  to  realize  how  frail  a  hold  he  held  on  life, 
for  when  not  permitted  to  speak  his  pencil  would  trace 
the  most  amusing  comments  on  all  that  came  to  his 
notice,  and  when  his  interest  grew  too  strong  for  this 
method  of  communication  he  would  throw  prudence  to 
the  winds  and  talk  quand  meme.  On  my  morning  visits 
we  would  amuse  ourselves  in  opening  the  letters  which 
came  in  large  numbers,  the  most  part  being  requests  for 
autographs;  which,  when  his  name  was  spelt  correctly, 
when  stamps  were  enclosed,  and  the  request  conveyed 
in  courteous  language,  he  invariably  complied  with. 
One  demand,  it  could  hardly  be  called  a  request,  ex- 
cited flattering  imitation  for  some  time  afterward;  our 
talk  and  our  correspondence  all  that  winter  echoing  its 
phraseology.  It  ran  like  this:  "Sir:  I  have  to  trouble 
you  for  your  autograph  and  that  of  your  talented  wife." 
For  months  after  we  would  "have  to  trouble"  each 
other  for  the  most  trifling  service,  and  our  wives  were 
gratified  with  "talented,"  until  these  ladies  begged 
for  respite. 


384      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

One  day  I  brought  him,  to  his  delight,  the  manuscript 
of  Henry  James'  admirable  paper,  of  which  he  was  the 
subject,  that  now  forms  part  of  the  volume  of  "Partial 
Portraits,"  which  I  had  borrowed  for  the  purpose  from 
my  good  friends  of  the  "Century  Magazine";  and  on 
another  day  I  was  witness  to  an  amusing  scene,  where 
the  accomplished  editor  of  that  periodical  proved  an 
alibi  for  an  accusation  that  Stevenson  repeated,  with 
mock  earnestness,  from  a  silly  story  that  had  crept  into 
the  papers  at  the  time. 

This  purported  to  give  an  account  of  a  visit  to  the 
offices  of  the  magazine  made  by  Louis  in  1880,  when 
on  his  way  to  California,  to  offer  his  services  as  a  writer, 
which  had  met  with  a  rude  rebuff.  He  had,  in  point  of 
fact  gone  there  to  procure  my  address,  and  this  being 
furnished,  had,  I  believe,  suggested  that  he  would  like 
to  undertake  work  for  them,  to  which  he  had  received 
the  reply  that  any  unknown  author  would  receive  in 
any  magazine  office:  that  if  he  cared  to  submit  any 
work  it  would  be  carefully  considered.  This  plain, 
unvarnished  version  of  the  incident  did  not  suit  his 
mood  of  the  moment,  and  he  embroidered,  upon  the 
already  exaggerated  journalistic  account,  a  most  touch- 
ing picture  of  the  indignities  to  which  he  had  been  sub- 
jected, until  the  accused  neatly  turned  the  tables  by 
inquiring  the  exact  date  of  the  occurrence,  at  which 
time  it  appeared  that  the  alleged  culprit  was  in  Europe. 

The  memory  of  his  late  voyage  was  strong  upon  him 
and  his  talk  was  much  of  the  sea.  There  was  then  no 
thought  of  the  Pacific  voyage,  but  the  outcome  of  his 
great  desire  to  be  afloat  took  the  form  of  a  project  for  a 
summer  cruise  along  our  Eastern  coast.     "  It  is  the  only 


A  HALT  BEFORE  SARANAC     385 

life  to  live,"  he  protested,  "and  now  that  my  mother 
has  proved  a  good  sailor  she  is  willing  to  charter  a 
yacht,  if  it  can  be  had  for  less  than  'the  eyes  of  the 
head.'"* 

To  help  carry  out  this  project  I  made  some  inquiries 
at  his  request  among  the  yachting  agencies,  and  found 
that,  without  costing  "les  yeux  de  la  iete^''  a  serviceable 
yacht  might  be  chartered  for  two  or  three  months. 
Later  in  the  winter,  shortly  before  his  return  from 
Saranac,  the  commodore  of  one  of  our  yacht-clubs 
came  to  me,  at  the  instance  of  another  friend,  with  the 
welcome  message  that  an  admirer  of  Stevenson's  work, 
who  owned  a  roomy  and  comfortable  sea-going  yacht, 
would  be  pleased  to  put  it  at  the  disposition  of  the 
latter  for  the  bare  cost  of  keeping  it  in  commission. 

The  plans  which  resulted  may  be  left  to  be  told  in 
their  proper  order,  for  by  this  time  Mrs.  Louis,  as,  to 
prevent  confusion  with  his  mother,  we  were  wont  to 
call  my  friend's  wife,  and  her  son  had  returned  from 
Saranac,  with  the  report  that  a  suitable  house  for  the 
winter  had  been  found  and  that  a  sojourn  in  the  north- 
ern woods  promised  well  for  Louis.  There  was  still 
considerable  preparation  to  be  made  and,  before  the 
family  finally  took  their  flight  northward,  nearly  a 
month  had  passed,  during  which  time  Louis'  strength 
had  visibly  improved. 

In  trying  to  give  some  pictures  of  Louis'  daily  life  at 
this  time  I  have  purposely  reserved  the  most  important 
event  of  his  first  station  in  our  city  for  a  fuller  descrip- 
tion in  the  following  chapter.  To  bring  together  two 
men  like  Stevenson  and  Saint-Gaudens,  to  watch  their 

*"Les  yeux  dc  la  tctc" — common  French  locution. 


38G       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

instant  understanding  grow  to  close  friendship,  to  see 
day  by  day  the  by  far  most  satisfactory  portrait  of 
Stevenson  develop  through  the  sympathetic  genius  of 
Saint-Gaudens,  and  meanwhile  to  listen  or  join  in  the 
talk  by  which  these  hours  were  enlivened,  was  a  privi- 
lege for  which  my  gratitude  is  only  exceeded  by  the 
gratification  which  both  these  men  never  wearied  of 
expressing  to  their  intermediary  friend,  as  for  a  service 
rendered. 

Knowing  them  as  I  did,  it  was  to  me  a  foregone  con- 
clusion that  they  should  like  each  other;  but  though 
there  are  few  things  more  gratifying  than  to  bring  con- 
genial friends  together,  it  has  never  been  my  good 
fortune  to  be  so  completely  successful  in  this  endeavour 
as  when  Augustus  Saint-Gaudens  met  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson. 


XXXII 

ROBERT   LOUIS   STEVENSON   AND   AUGUSTUS 
SAINT-GAUDENS 

THERE  are  graver,  but  there  are  few  more  exas- 
perating instances  of  the  differences  of  taste  that 
divide  otherwise  congenial  friends,  than  when 
one  of  these  fails  to  share  an  enthusiasm  proper  to  the 
other;  to  accept  it  like  a  ready-made  garment  and  adopt 
it  as  his  own.  I  had  consequently  grieved  that,  to  my 
early  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  Stevenson  as  a  writer, 
Saint-Gaudens  had  shown  a  polite  willingness  to  accept 
my  word  for  it,  but  had  neglected  to  avail  himself  of 
the  opportunity  to  read  either  the  "Inland  Voyage"  or 
the  "Travels  with  a  Donkey"  at  the  time  of  their  pub- 
lication. 

In  his  youth  I  imagine  that,  preoccupied  with  the 
technical  qualities  of  his  art,  he  had  read  but  little,  and 
to  the  end,  if  one  were  to  believe  his  modest  self- 
depreciation,  he  considered  himself  quite  unlettered. 
This  was  an  excess  of  modesty,  for  no  man  who  had 
thought  so  deeply  as  he  could  be  deaf  to  the  awakening 
impulse  of  literature,  and  it  was  obviously  a  mere  con- 
fusion between  quantity  and  quality  that  had  bred  this 
self-depreciation  in  his  mind.  But  if  the  books  that  he 
read  were  comparatively  few,  they  were,  in  his  belief, 
of  his  own  discovery,  for  more  than  once  has  it  hap- 
pened that  a  work  to  which  his  attention  had  been 
directed  would  fall  in  his  way  long  after,  when  in  an- 

387 


388      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

other  mood  he  had  forgotten  its  favourable  recom- 
mendation, and  would  greatly  impress  him;  and  then 
no  one  was  so  eager  as  he  to  share  his  pleasure  with 
others.  One  typical  instance  was  his  late  discovery 
of  so  well  known  a  work  as  "Candide";  and  his  propa- 
ganda among  his  friends  in  favour  of  Voltaire  was  as 
enthusiastic  as  it  was  characteristic  of  the  man,  who 
was  as  generous  in  his  appreciation  of  a  fine  thing  as  he 
could  be  severely  critical  of  one  that  failed. 

Consequently,  I  was  no  whit  surprised  when  Saint- 
Gaudens  came  to  me  loud  with  the  praises  of  the  "New 
Arabian  Nights,"  which  he  had  just  read.  I  even  be- 
lieve that,  with  true  nobility  of  character,  I  refrained 
from  saying  "I  told  you  so" — all  the  more  because,  in 
some  contrition,  he  expressed  his  regret  for  having 
neglected  his  earlier  opportunity  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  works  of  Stevenson.  From  that  time  on  he 
was  numbered  with  the  faithful,  reading  all  that  my 
favourite  author  had  written,  and  sharing  the  letters 
that  I  received  with  an  insatiable  curiosity  to  know  all 
that  he  could  of  the  man. 

He  regretted  greatly  the  mischance  of  missing  his 
acquaintance  in  Paris,  and  had  exacted  from  me  the 
promise  that  if  Stevenson  ever  came  within  speaking 
distance  he  should  know  him.  This  promise  he  recalled 
when  he  was  on  his  way  to  this  country,  and  said  that 
if  Louis  would  consent,  he  would  consider  it  a  privilege 
to  model  his  portrait. 

The  state  of  Stevenson's  health  was  such  that,  though 
there  were  a  number  of  my  friends  with  whom  I  knew 
the  pleasure  of  acquaintance  would  be  mutual,  I  exer- 
cised  a   regretful  but  necessary  self-control,  with  the 


STEVENSON  AND   SAINT-GAUDENS    389 

approval  of  the  guardians  of  his  well-being,  not  to 
bring  about  meetings  which  I  knew  he  would  enjoy, 
and  to  which  his  consent  would  only  too  willingly  have 
been  given. 

With  these  vigilant  guardians  there  was  a  momentary 
hesitation,  lest  the  fatigue  of  sitting  for  his  portrait 
should  be  more  than  he  should  be  subjected  to;  but 
the  first  sight  of  Saint-Gaudens  destroyed  whatever 
share  of  this  hesitation  Louis  might  have  felt,  for  the 
two  men  "took  to"  each  other  from  the  first. 

"Astonishingly  young,  not  a  bit  like  an  invalid,  and 
a  bully  fellow,"  was  Saint-Gaudens's  answer  to  my 
query  concerning  his  impression,  as  we  came  out  to- 
gether from  their  first  meeting.  "I  like  your  sculptor, 
what  a  splendid  straightforward  and  simple  fellow  he 
is,  and  handsome  as  well,"  was  Stevenson's  salutation, 
when  I  came  to  him  later  in  the  day.  The  sittings 
had  been  arranged  at  this  first  interview  and,  at  Saint- 
Gaudens's  request,  I  endeavoured  to  be  always  present 
when  he  worked,  and  thanks  to  our  triangular  flow  of 
talk,  I  doubt  if  Louis  ever  felt  for  a  moment  the  con- 
straint of  posing. 

Parenthetically,  I  may  say  that  this  was  fortunate, 
for  in  nearly  all  his  photographs  there  is  a  trace  of  self- 
consciousness  that  in  all  other  aspects  of  the  man  was 
wholly  absent.  The  following  spring  I  remember  a 
half  day  spent  with  him  at  a  photographer's  where  he 
tried  my  patience  sorely,  and  where  he,  though  he 
assured  me  in  self-defence  against  my  protest  that  he 
was  doing  his  best  to  avoid  it,  was  forced  to  confess  that 
he  no  sooner  saw  the  eye  of  the  camera  directed  at  him 
than  he  forced  himself  to  "look  pleasant." 


390      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


The  best  of  his  photographs  is  the  one  not  over-well 
reproduced  in  the  first  volume  of  the  "Letters," which 
was  a  veritable  "snap-shot,"  taken  by  Lloyd  Osbourne 
who,  then  of  school-boy  age,  was  playing  with  a  camera, 
and  calling  on  Stevenson  to  look  up  caught  him  un- 
awares. 

There  was  another,  taken  at  Bournemouth  by  a  pro- 
fessional photographer,  which  we  charged  him  with 
secretly  loving  and  sending  to  all  the  young  women 
who  wrote  to  express  their  admiration  of  his  work; 
"a  fine,  chicken-hearted  presentment  of  a  young  poet" 
he  owned  it  to  be,  half  confessing  to  this  weakness,  in 
which  he  was  wholly  abetted  by  his  mother,  with  whom 
it  was  a  favourite  picture,  and  who  protested  against 
our  scorn. 

For  Saint-Gaudens  the  way  was  made  easy.  "  I 
could  not  escape,  if  I  would,"  said  the  sitter,  for  the 
sculptor's  easel  was  drawn  up  near  the  bed  where 
Stevenson  was  a  prisoner.  Never  was  dungeon  more 
enlivened  by  talk,  of  which,  as  usual,  it  is  difficult  to 
give  much  idea,  so  constantly  did  subjects  change,  and 
so  wide  the  gamut  from  serious  consideration  of  serious 
topics  to  the  lightest  and  wildest  chaff. 

The  relief  rapidly  took  the  form  in  which  it  was  first 
conceived,  a  circular  composition  suggested  probably 
by  the  lines  of  Stevenson's  figure  sitting  propped  by  the 
pillows  at  his  back,  his  knees  raised;  his  usual  position 
to  read  or  write  in  bed.  The  general  composition  was 
quickly  indicated  in  masses,  but  the  head  alone  was 
finished  at  this  time,  the  hands  being  completed  the 
following  year  from  casts  which  Saint-Gaudens  made 
during  Stevenson's  stay  at  Manasquan.     By  that  time 


Chimney-piece  in  the  author's  studio,  with  the  portrait  medallion  ui  R.  L.  S. 
A  copy  of  it  built  into  my  chimney-piece  looks  down  on  me  in  my  studio. — Page  435 


STEVENSON  AND  SAINT-GAUDENS    391 

the  whole  medalHon  was  advanced  nearly  to  comple- 
tion, and  in  this  circular  form  it  appears  to  me  much 
to  be  preferred  to  the  oblong  relief  which,  about  fifteen 
years  later,  was  placed  in  position  in  the  Church  of  St. 
Giles  in  Edinburgh — the  Scottish  Westminster  Abbey, 
where  many  of  the  greater  men  of  the  country  are  com- 
memorated. 

A  greater  change,  affecting  the  expressional  quality 
of  Saint-Gaudens's  original  conception,  was  made  at  the 
dictation  of  the  authorities  of  the  church.  The  sup- 
pression of  the  verses,  originally  written  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  dedication  of  my  work  in  "Lamia" — a 
dedication  made  "in  testimony  ...  of  a  common 
faith  in  'doubtful  tales  from  faery-land,'"  and  of  which 
Louis  wrote,  "I  accept  the  terms  of  the  dedication 
with  a  frank  heart" — that  Saint-Gaudens  had  incorpo- 
rated as  a  part  of  his  design,  appears  to  me  most  re- 
gretful. 

I  am  well  aware  that  the  expression  of  this  regret 
might  be  interpreted  as  one  unbecomingly  tinged  by 
the  personal  equation,  but  my  feeling  was  strongly 
shared  by  the  sculptor  who,  not  long  before  his  death, 
deplored  the  circumstances  by  which  he  had  been 
forced  to  make  the  change.  Leaving  entirely  out  of 
the  question  therefore  the  personal  direction  of  these 
verses,  they  more  perfectly  reflect  the  man  who  wrote 
them,  his  belief  in  his  art,  the  tendency  of  his  work, 
and  the  philosophy  of  his  life,  than  is  elsewhere  ex- 
pressed, at  least  in  so  concrete  a  form,  in  any  other  of 
his  writings.  The  prayer  of  Stevenson's  composition 
which  was  eventually  substituted  in  the  memorial 
medallion  is,  however  beautiful,  an  expression  of  only  a 


392      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

single  phase  of  his  character,  and  is  to  this  degree  mis- 
leading— that,  throughout  life  his  faith  was  shown  in 
deed  rather  than  in  supplication. 

The  memorial  may,  however,  be  taken  as  merely  an 
official  variation  of  the  original  conception  which 
fortunately  remains;  a  copy  of  it  built  into  my  chimney- 
piece  looks  down  on  me  in  my  studio,  where,  sur- 
rounded by  an  ivy-wreath  as  an  emblem  of  friendship, 
the  sculptor,  with  a  decorative  sense  of  the  beauty  of 
an  inscription  that  was  peculiarly  his  own,  has  modelled 
in  relief  on  the  background  the  entire  poem,  with  its 
frank  acceptance  of  our  common  lot  and  its  brave  con- 
fession of  abiding  faith  at  the  end: 

Life  is  over,  life  was  gay, 

We  have  come  the  primrose  way. 

Life  seemed  held  by  but  a  slender  thread  for  one  of  us 
in  those  days,  but  it  was  continuously  gay  by  Steven- 
son's bedside  as  Saint-Gaudens's  work  grew  apace. 

One  morning  Louis  attacked  the  conditions  of  Amer- 
ican life  as  they  appeared  to  him,  urging  that  the  ten- 
dency of  a  system  like  ours  was  to  place  all  men  upon 
a  common  level,  or,  as  in  deference  to  his  hearers  he 
expressed  it,  "lift  them  to  a  sufficiently  high  average," 
but  one  which  rendered  difficult  the  expression  of 
strong  individuality. 

He  gave  us  a  number  of  instances  of  the  contrary 
effect  of  the  civilization  of  the  British  Isles,  some  of 
which  were  sufficiently  amusing,  and  denoted  strong 
individual  characteristics  in  the  men  he  rapidly  sketched 
for  us.  "But  here,"  he  concluded,  "you  cannot  tell 
whether  a  man  is  from   Boston  or  Denver;  they  may 


STEVENSON  AND   SAINT-GAUDENS    393 

both  be  charming  fellows,  but  they  are  usually  as  like 
as  two  peas." 

In  answer  we  insisted  that  his  opinion  was  not  gen- 
erally held  in  either  of  the  cities  cited,  and  would  prob- 
ably meet  with  indignant  denial  in  both.  We  were 
forced  to  admit  that  there  was  some  truth  in  his  asser- 
tion, so  far  as  the  superficial  aspects  of  our  people  were 
concerned,  but  we  asserted  that  this  was  only  natural, 
as  our  newer  conditions  afforded  none  of  the  quiet 
back-waters  removed  from  the  main  current  of  life 
that  had  survived  in  the  older  countries  from  earlier 
conditions,  and  were  doomed  by  the  march  of  progress 
to  disappear  even  there,  but  which  meanwhile  afforded 
a  refuge  where  personal  idiosyncrasy  could  develop 
without  hindrance. 

Moreover,  in  further  refutal  of  Stevenson's  conten- 
tion, we  were  certain  that  without  going  out  of  the  circle 
of  our  friends,  certainly  keeping  within  that  of  our 
acquaintances,  we  could  muster  a  number  of  our  com- 
patriots who  for  strongly  marked  individual  character- 
istics would  satisfy  the  most  ardent  lover  of  idiosyn- 
crasies. Thereupon  Saint-Gaudens  and  I  projected  an 
imaginary  dinner  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  covers  to 
which  Stevenson  should  be  invited,  and  where  each 
man,  by  artful  contrivance,  should  be  induced  to  ad- 
vance his  own  private  theories  of  life,  morals,  or  art; 
and  the  only  difficulty  which  we  could  foresee  was  that 
each  one  of  the  invited  should  be,  for  his  proper  safety, 
encased  in  armour. 

As  one  after  the  other  passed  in  rapid  review  Saint- 
Gaudens's  faculty  for  visualizing  gave  each  character 
life,  and  Stevenson  lamented  that  some  such  festivity 


394      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

could  not  take  place;  owning  at  the  end  that  he  had 
been  led  into  a  sin  that  he  abhorred:  of  making  a  gen- 
eral statement  upon  insufficient  knowledge. 

At  another  time  the  conversation  turned  on  the 
purely  accidental  avoidance  of  the  nude  on  the  part  of 
Saint-Gaudens,  who  declared  then,  as  I  have  often 
heard  him  say  before  or  since,  that  "if  he  ever  got  a 
moment  free,"  he  would  repair  the  omission.  To 
fortify  him  in  this  resolve,  I  quoted  Emerson: 

The  sinful  painter  drapes  his  goddess  warm, 
Because  she  still  is  naked,  being  dressed: 

The  god-like  sculptor  will  not  so  deform 
Beauty,  which  limbs  and  flesh  enough  invest. 

These  lines  took  Stevenson's  fancy  greatly,  and  for  the 
rest  of  the  time  that  they  were  together,  and  in  his 
subsequent  correspondence  with  Saint-Gaudens,  he  was 
generally  addressed  or  referred  to  as  the  "God-like 
sculptor" — a  form  of  address  which  may  have  puzzled 
some  of  the  readers  of  the  "Letters." 

Once  or  twice  Saint-Gaudens  asked  me  to  take  his 
place  and  criticise  the  work,  or  as  he  put  it,  "to  jump 
on  it,  just  as  I  would  to  a  pupil  in  the  school."  Thus 
invited  I  scrutinized  the  model  and  compared  the  por- 
trait without  finding  any  but  minor  suggestions  of 
detail  to  enhance  closer  resemblance. 

In  addition  to  its  veracious  character  it  is  superfluous 
to  speak  of  this  medallion  as  a  work  of  art,  for  whatever 
reservation  may  yet  come  to  be  made  concerning  other 
forms  of  sculpture  by  Saint-Gaudens,  the  series  of  relief- 
portraits  which  he  modelled,  where  this  one  ranks  among 
the  best,  are  all  characterized  by  absolute  mastery. 


vfer^  LcX^  ^/ 


//v ^^-^^ 


\ 


^A^ 


'y 


^  # 


Facsimile  of  a  letter  and  caricatures  by  Saint-(}audens 

1  Ik-  signature  here  shows  Saint  Gaudens's  amusinj;  caricature  of  his  Francois- premier  profile,  a  resemblance  denot- 
ing the  Provencal  ancestry  common  to  both,  with  which  he  frequently  sijined  his  mrirc  intimate  letters. 


STEVENSON  AND   SAINT-GAUDENS    395 

It  was  with  heart-felt  regret,  and  many  amicable  prot- 
estations, that  the  two  new  friends  parted  when  the 
moment  came  for  Stevenson  and  his  family  to  go  to 
Saranac.  I  had  formed  the  pleasant  habit  of  sharing 
their  life  a  part  of  each  day  and,  having  been  a  pleased 
witness  of  the  progress  of  this  new  relation  between  two 
men  for  whom  I  felt  such  hearty  affection,  I  regretted 
the  cessation  of  work  upon  the  medallion. 

As  for  Saint-Gaudens,  the  following  extract  from  one 
of  his  letters,  containing  a  characteristic  drawing,  best 
explains  the  effect  upon  him  of  this  happy  encounter. 

"Windsor,  Vt.,  29  September,  1887. 
**....    My  episode  with  Stevenson  has  been  one  of 
the  events  of  my  life,  and  I  can  now  understand  the 

state  of  mind gets  in  about  people.     I  am  in  that 

beatific  state.  It  makes  me  very  happy,  and  as  the 
pursuit  of  happiness  is  an  'inalienable  right,  God-given, 
one  and  indivisible'  (vide  Constitution  of  the  United 
States),  I'm  damned  if  I  don't  think  I've  a  right  to  be, 
provided  I  don't  injure  anyone.    .   .   ." 

Stevenson's  parting  message,  as  he  left  on  his  north- 
ward journey  was  "Don't  forget  to  find  out  all  you  can 
about  yachts  for  the  summer.  The  Rhone  trip  didn't 
come  off,  but  we  may  make  a  book  together  yet;  and 
in  any  case  you've  never  known  what  life  is  until  you 
live  on  the  sea." 

And  so  in  this  spirit  I  left  him  on  the  Hudson  River 
boat  one  morning  in  early  October,  not  yet  knowing 
that  it  was  always  to  be  my  fate  to  bid  him  God-speed 
— and  never  to  share  his  journey. 


o 


XXXIII 

THE  RETURN  FROM  SARANAC 

UR  friends  were  soon  installed  at  Saranac,  and 
the  first  message  received  from  Louis  assured 
us  of  their  comfort.     It  ran  like  this: 


"Sir: 

"I  have  to  trouble  you  v^ith  the  following  paroles 
hiensenties.  We  are  here  at  a  first-rate  place.  'Baker's' 
is  the  name  of  our  house,  but  we  don't  address  there; 
we  prefer  the  tender  care  of  the  Post  Office,  as  more 
aristocratic  (it  is  no  use  to  telegraph  even  to  the  care 
of  the  Post  Office,  who  does  not  give  a  single  damn)." 

Then  followed  an  invitation  to  visit  him,  to  occupy 
a  "prophet's  chamber,  which  the  hypercritical  might 
describe  as  a  garret  with  a  hole  in  the  floor,"  and  the 
signature  of  "your  respected  and  talented  friend, 
pitcher,  and  fellow-ass,  R.  L.  S.";  while,  as  an  after- 
thought, in  one  corner  of  the  page  were  the  welcome 
words,  "I  am  well." 

Three  or  four  times  that  winter  were  visits  projected, 
twice  at  least  was  luggage  made  ready,  but  the  strange 
fatality  which  thrice  the  preceding  year  had  prevented 
visits  to  Skerryvore,  was  still  active  to  frustrate  the 
plans  of  a  busy  man,  and  the  visit  was  never  made. 
The  winter,  however,  saw  both  the  wife  and  the  mother 
in  New  York  for  short  visits,  as  one  or  the  other  could 

396 


THE  RETURN  FROM  SARANAC   397 

be  spared  from  the  side  of  Louis,  and  by  letters  our 
communication  was  frequent. 

The  bleak  winter  weather  was  kind  to  the  invalid. 
For  one  of  northern  birth  he  had  little  love  for  the 
place  despite  the  invigorating  qualities  of  the  cold  dry 
air  of  the  Adirondack  woods,  and  in  his  letters  of  the 
time  there  runs  a  vein  of  yearning  for  the  sun,  which 
obstinately  kept  hidden,  and  of  distaste  for  the  "wilder- 
ness of  hills  and  fir  woods  and  bowlders  and  snow  and 
wooden  houses."  It  was  "Highland,  all  but  the  dear 
hue  of  peat"  .  .  .  "Highland,  also,  but  for  the  lack 
of  heather."  There  was,  I  fancy,  a  deeper  reason  for 
his  dislike:  Saranac  was  a  "health  resort."  Two 
winters  at  Davos  had  been  beneficial  for  his  health,  but 
when  the  third  flight  from  his  inhospitable  native  heath 
was  projected,  he  had  obstinately  refused  to  return  to 
Davos,  and  had  fled  to  the  South,  to  Hyeres  and  the 
sun. 

He  prayed  for  a  return  of  strength,  he  was  willing  to 
listen  to  advice,  he  was  not  a  fool  imprudently  to  risk 
his  life;  but  except  when  the  iron  hand  of  physical  in- 
capacity held  him  prostrate,  he  simply  could  not  accept 
the  life  of  an  invalid.  To  be  surrounded  by  others 
apparently  in  worse  case  than  himself,  to  see  the  world 
from  the  windows  of  a  sick  room,  was  not  life  from  his 
point  of  view.  It  was  not  what  he  had  come  so  far  to 
seek,  nor  what,  in  seeking  still  further,  he  eventually 
found.  Consequently,  though  through  this  winter  he 
was  in  the  main  fairly  well,  and  was  able  to  skate  and 
venture  out  of  doors  in  the  most  rigorous  weather 
(whereas  in  even  the  mild  climate  of  Bournemouth  he 
had  been,  in  the  winter  season,  imprisoned  indoors,  lead- 


398      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

ing  the  life  of  "a  weevil  in  a  biscuit"),  he  disHked  his 
surroundings. 

His  work  progressed,  the  essays  for  Scribner's  and  a 
good  part  of  the  "Master  of  Ballantrae"  rewarded  his 
toil.  Many  of  his  letters  to  me,  who  was  in  a  position 
to  procure  and  send  to  our  friends  articles  of  comfort 
or  necessity,  were  occupied  with  these  details;  his 
request  being  generally  couched  in  characteristic  lan- 
guage. From  one  of  these,  after  a  long  list  of  house- 
hold necessities,  I  extract  the  following: 

".  .  .  .  Sir,  since  2  p.  m.  yesterday,  a  period  of 
nearly  eighteen  hours,  the  wretched  man  who  now  ad- 
dresses you  has  not  smoked.  The  same  length  of 
time  has  elapsed  since  the  high-bred  Lloyd  Osbourne 
has  Broken  Tobacco.  The  famine  has  passed  through 
all  the  usual  stages;  tissue  paper  from  between  visiting 
cards  and  'baccy  from  the  bottom  of  pockets  having 
been  consumed;  but  now,  sir,  the  last  'ope  has  waltzed 
into  space,  and  neither  Osbourne  nor  myself  can  longer 
blink  the  conviction  that 

"'Hall  is  over. 

Farewell.* 
"When  our  memorial  notices  are  written,  this  will  be  a 
shrewd  cut  at  the  States,  under  whose  banner  we  perish. 
Well,  I  am  now  done  with  the  passions  of  mortality — 
Farewell!  but  if  a  tin  of  Margarita  and  a  mass  of 
cigarette  papers  came  by  post,  without  prejudice  to 
another  tin  in  the  general  packet,  it  would  not  find  me 
alive,  of  course,  no,  but  it  might  be  handy  for  my 
executors. 

"Sir,  Yours,  R.  L.  S. 


THE  RETURN  FROM  SARANAC   399 

"I  pray  God  all  is  well  with  the  Talented.  'La  vie 
sans  Tabac'  (good  name  for  a  book)  smiles  on  me  but 
little.  Good  heavens,  Low,  what  a  melancholy  fate  is 
mine — still  so  young,  and  had  I  strength  left,  I  might 
flee  from  this  horrible  place;  there  is  help  at  Plattsburg 
— the  mail  goes." 

The  "shrewd  cut  at  the  States"  was  a  thrust  at  my — 
I  take  my  readers  to  witness — not  inordinate  patriotism. 
Not  long  before  in  an  international  discussion  between 
us,  in  which  I  regret  to  say  that  I  had  been  forced  to 
take  sides  against  my  own  wife  and  her  ally  of  Scotch 
birth;  though  I  was  ably  supported  by  Mrs.  Stevenson, 
Louis  had  closed  the  debate,  heaving  a  profound  sigh 
and  shaking  his  head,  with  "My  dear  Mrs.  Low,  it  is 
quite  useless  to  argue,  /,  too,  have  married  an  American.'' 

With  frequent  messages  from  Saranac,  and  the  usual 
mixture  of  much  work  and  a  little  play,  the  winter  in 
New  York  passed  quickly.  Almost  before  the  passage 
of  time  was  realized  April  had  come,  and  our  friends 
were  once  more  occupying  their  former  quarters  in  the 
Hotel  St.  Stephen  in  Eleventh  Street,  which  by  this 
time  had  come  to  be  known  among  the  intimates  as  the 
Hotel  St.  Stevenson. 

The  improvement  in  the  physical  condition  of  Steven- 
son was  evident.  He  was  still  obliged  to  exercise 
precaution  against  overfatigue,  but  he  could  venture 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  was  able  to  see  more 
people  than  on  his  previous  visit. 

The  previous  year  I  had  been  honoured  by  election 
to  the  Century,  and  though  my  friend  was  not  able  to 
share  our  evening  meetings  there,  he  was  provided  with 


400      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


a  card  that  enabled  him  to  pass  pleasant  morning  hours 
in  the  well-appointed  library.  The  Century  Associa- 
tion (to  give  it  its  full  and  formal  title)  was  then  located 
in  Fifteenth  Street,  near  Union  Square,  in  an  old- 
fashioned  house  which  afforded  more  of  the  homely 
comforts  of  some  of  the  English  clubs  than  its  present 
palatial  building  suggests.  It  was  not  unlike  the  Savile 
Club  in  London,  which  Stevenson  had  frequented  in 
his  younger  days,  and  he  enjoyed  its  atmosphere 
greatly.  In  the  mornings  he  had  the  library  almost  to 
himself,  and  worked  there,  in  the  surroundings  of 
Gothic  woodwork,  furniture,  and  gas  fixtures  (circa 
1857)  to  his  great  content.  He  met  few  of  the  mem- 
bers, but  one  such  encounter  was  interesting  as  proof  of 
the  oft-repeated  assertion  that  the  world  is  very  small. 

The  incident  was  told  me  by  Mr.  John  La  Farge, 
who,  happening  in  the  library  one  morning  in  research 
of  some  reference  book,  noticed,  in  Mr.  La  Farge's 
words:  "an  interesting  man,  with  the  look  of  an  in- 
valid," occupied  in  writing.  After  a  few  minutes  the 
stranger  paused  and,  producing  a  tobacco-pouch  and 
paper,  rolled  a  cigarette,  and  then  looked  around, 
obviously  lacking  a  match.  Ever  courteous,  Mr.  La 
Farge  rose  and,  crossing  to  where  the  stranger  sat, 
gave  him  the  needed  commodity,  and  then,  as  the  other 
looked  up  to  thank  him,  recognized  him  to  be  Steven- 
son. Beyond  this  simple  courtesy  there  were  no  words 
exchanged,  and  when  these  two  men  next  met  it  was  in 
far-off  Samoa,  where,  fortunately,  they  grew  to  know 
each  other  well  to  their  mutual  enjoyment. 

Mention  of  the  Century  brings  to  mind  words  of 
praise  which  it  has  elicited  from  two  distinguished  men, 


THE  RETURN  FROM  SARANAC   401 

and  which  its  loyal  members  love  to  quote.  The  first  of 
these  is  Thackeray's  extravagant  encomium  that  "it  is 
the  best  club  in  the  world,"  and  the  second  is  the  asser- 
tion of  General  Sherman  that  "it  was  the  only  place  in 
New  York  where  he  could  go  without  being  mobbed." 

These  were  the  days  which  the  hero  of  the  march  to 
the  sea  was  passing  in  dignified  retirement  in  New  York 
where,  with  all  war-like  passions  stilled,  he  was  con- 
stantly the  recipient  of  the  enthusiastic,  and  occasionally 
embarrassing,  attentions  of  his  fellow-citizens.  In  prep- 
aration for  the  noblest  monument  we  possess,  Saint- 
Gaudens  was  engaged  in  modelling  the  bust  of  the 
General  at  this  time  and,  coming  fresh  from  these 
sittings,  the  sculptor  was  prolific  with  the  wise  sayings, 
or  the  interesting  incidents,  born  of  the  long  afternoons 
which  they  passed  together. 

Preoccupied  as  was  Saint-Gaudens  with  Stevenson, 
he  desired  to  bring  the  two  men  together,  and  the  desire 
to  meet  the  great  General  was  no  less  intense  on  the 
part  of  Louis,  who  had  read  Sherman's  Memoirs, 
and  with  his  inherent  respect  for  a  great  soldier 
admired  him  greatly.  Saint-Gaudens  therefore  ap- 
proached the  subject  with  his  sitter.  "Stevenson.^ 
Stevenson.?"  inquired  the  General.  "He  wishes  to 
meet  me.  Who  is  he,  one  of  'my  boys'?"  By  this 
endearing  title  the  old  warrior  knew  the  hosts  of  sur- 
vivors of  his  campaigns  who  were  wont  to  seek  their 
former  commander.  "  Not  in  the  army,  eh  ?  A  Scotch- 
man, an  author,  what  has  he  written  ?"  Alas,  the  good 
General  had  been  more  occupied  in  making  history 
than  in  following  current  literature,  and  the  catalogue 
of  Stevenson's  works  left  him  cold  until  "Jekyll  and 


402      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

Hyde"  was  mentioned.  "He  wrote  that,  did  he,  first- 
rate  play,  saw  Mansfield  in  it,  I'll  be  glad  to  meet  your 
friend."  A  day  was  appointed,  but  when  Stevenson 
was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  General  Sherman,  he 
was  somewhat  flustered  at  the  inquiry  as  to  what 
specific  corps  of  the  army,  in  what  regiment  and  com- 
pany he  had  served.  "  But,"  he  laughed  as  he  told  me 
the  story,  "thanks  to  Saint-Gaudens,  I  was  ready  for 
the  dear  old  boy,  and  so  I  told  him  that  I  had  not  had 
the  luck  of  serving  under  him,  but  was  simply  the 
author  of  *Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde.'"  He  was  quite 
certain  that  the  General  had  not  read  the  book,  and  so 
for  the  rest  of  the  interview  he  wore  unblushingly  the 
laurels  of  Mr.  Russell  Sullivan,  to  whom  was  due  the 
dramatization  of  his  story.  Evidently,  however,  the 
visit  had  been  highly  satisfactory  to  them  both,  for 
Stevenson  at  once  turned  the  conversation  to  the  Gen- 
eral's book  and,  as  between  fellow-authors,  the  con- 
versation had  been  animated.  Louis  had  been  greatly 
impressed  by  the  book  and  knew  it  well,  and  having 
an  overwhelming  respect  for  one  who  had  actually 
lived  its  pages,  we  may  be  sure  that  he  talked  both  well 
and  becomingly  to  the  soldier-author.  "So  you  were 
not  in  the  least  disappointed  with  your  hero  at  close 
range  .f"'  I  inquired.  "Disappointed — it  was  mag- 
nificent to  simply  stand  in  the  presence  of  one  who  had 
done  what  he  has,  and  then  to  find  him  so  genial  and 
human.  It  was  the  next  thing  to  seeing  Wellington, 
and  I  dare  say  that  the  Iron  Duke  would  not  have 
been  half  so  human." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  broke  out:  "Why, 
he  actually  tried  to  sell  me  his  book!     He  asked  me 


THE  RETURN  FROM  SARANAC   403 

when  and  in  what  edition  I  had  read  it,  and  when  I  told 
him,  he  said  that  there  was  a  new  and  better  edition, 
and  insisted  on  going  to  another  room  to  bring  a  copy 
to  show  me.  He  ran  over  its  pages,  pointed  out  new 
matter  and  additional  maps,  told  me  the  publisher's 
name,  its  price,  and  earnestly  advised  me  to  get  a 
copy.  All  this  just  as  simply  as  you  or  I — and  to  think 
that  he  has  led  armies!" 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that,  back  of  all  his  keen 
appreciation  of  the  humour  of  the  situation,  Stevenson, 
as  he  told  these  details  of  his  interview,  hid  no  shadow 
of  disrespect.  He  went  to  the  meeting  a  genuine  hero- 
worshipper  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  for  as  he  has 
shown  in  many  a  written  page  his  admiration  for  the 
soldier  as  a  type  was  sincere,  and  had  he  found  a  mili- 
tary martinet,  he  would  have  accepted  him  as  such. 
To  find,  however,  that  this  man  of  deeds,  having  laid 
by  the  sword,  was  a  simple  gentleman,  touched  him 
more  deeply,  and  no  incident  of  his  visit  lessened  his 
appreciation  of  all  that  Sherman  was  and  all  that  he 
represented. 

I  remember  upon  another  occasion  his  saying  that 
the  finest  result  of  our  Civil  War  was  the  resumption  of 
the  tasks  of  peace  immediately  at  its  close,  and  by  the 
very  men  who  had  done  the  hardest  fighting.  He 
quoted  Grant's  famous  order  after  Appomattox,  by 
which  he  restored  the  horses  of  the  vanquished  army  to 
the  disbanded  troops,  in  order  that  they  might  be  used 
for  the  spring  ploughing,  as  among  the  noblest  words 
of  history,  and  the  simplicity  of  his  hero  at  close  range 
affected  him  in  like  manner. 

One  other  little  incident  happened  at  the  time  of  one 
of  my  morning  visits,  which  I  had  resumed  after  Ste- 


404      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

venson's  return  to  New  York.  A  card  was  sent  in,  to- 
gether with  a  note  in  which  the  writer  asked  that  Louis 
would  consent  to  give  him  a  brief  sitting  for  a  drawing 
that,  begun  from  a  photograph,  the  artist  desired  to 
finish  from  nature.  Stevenson  was  in  bed,  was  feeling 
far  from  well,  and  prudence  would  have  dictated  a 
refusal  of  this  request.  But  a  glance  at  the  visitor's 
card  induced  a  decision  in  his  favour.  It  bore  the 
name  of  a  man  whose  work  at  that  time  appeared  fre- 
quently in  our  illustrated  press.  He  was  a  foreigner, 
and  with  an  acuteness  of  business  instinct  that  is  sup- 
posed to  be  American,  but  which  an  alien  often  puts  to 
profit  in  a  way  that  a  native  would  hesitate  to  do,  his 
card  bore  the  names  of  some  forty  journals  that  he 
claimed  to  represent,  or  for  which  he  had  worked. 
Stevenson  therefore  insisted  that  he  should  be  permitted 
to  see  this  multi-journalistic  personage,  and  so  he  was 
admitted.  He  was  of  pleasant  manner,  and  assured 
Stevenson  that  it  would  not  be  necessary  to  retain  a 
fixed  position,  and  that  he  would  limit  his  stay  to  one 
hour.  Then,  detaching  his  watch  and  handing  it  to  my 
friend,  he  said,  "You  will  see  that  I  am  a  man  of  my 
word.  Let  me  begin  now,  and  stop  on  the  minute  that 
the  hour  has  elapsed." 

I  left  them,  but  on  coming  again  later  in  the  day  I  found 
Stevenson  delighted  with  the  experience.  "He  had  been 
everywhere — had  seen  everything,  and  talked  extremely 
well  about  it  all.  Do  you  know  what  I  did  ?  /  turned 
his  watch  hack  an  hour,  I  was  so  afraid  to  lose  him."  * 

Indulgences  like  these  were  certainly  a  mild  form  of 

*  As  some  of  my  readers  may  surmise,  this  entertaining  visitor  was  the 
versatile  Valerian  GribayedofF — whose  death  is  announced  from  Paris,  almost 
as  I  write  these  lines. 


THE  RETURN  FROM  SARANAC   405 

dissipation,  but  slight  as  they  were  the  number  of 
people  that  he  saw,  and  the  ardour  which  he  employed 
in  resuming  the  "kindly  commerce  with  men,"  which 
meant  so  much  to  him,  began  to  tell  upon  Stevenson's 
feeble  store  of  strength.  The  early  morning  hours 
found  him  at  his  work,  and  when  about  nine  o'clock  I 
made  my  appearance  he  had  already  done  his  task  for 
the  day — three  and  sometimes  four  hours  of  work. 
His  spirit  flagged,  and  more  than  I  had  ever  seen  him 
he  became  depressed.  Toward  the  end  of  April,  I  was 
greeted  on  entering  the  room  one  morning  with  "  Low, 
you  must  get  me  out  of  this."  I  sat  by  him  and  we 
talked  the  matter  over.  The  plans  for  the  summer 
were  undecided,  but  in  general  the  project  for  the 
cruise  along  the  Eastern  coast  still  held,  and  in  June  a 
commodious  yacht,  with  cabin  accommodation  for 
eight  people,  one  that  was  built  for  family  cruises,  was 
to  be  put  at  his  disposition.  After  a  month  or  six 
weeks  of  loitering  on  the  sea,  a  return  to  the  Adiron- 
dacks  and  a  camp  on  one  of  the  lakes  was  considered; 
and  for  this  I  prophesied  for  my  friend  a  complete  revul- 
sion of  the  feeling  which  he  entertained  for  our  northern 
forest.  I  had,  long  years  before,  enjoyed  a  delightful 
summer  in  these  woods,  and  I  knew  that  the  life  in 
boat  and  camp  would  be  a  novel  and  pleasing  ex- 
perience for  him. 

All  definite  plans  were,  however,  held  in  abeyance 
pending  the  return  from  California  of  the  younger  Mrs. 
Stevenson,  who  during  this  time  was  absent  from  her 
husband's  side  on  the  Pacific  edge  of  the  continent. 
Stevenson  needed  an  instant  change,  and  from  various 
suggestions  that  I  made,  the  description  of  a  place  on 


406      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

the  Jersey  coast  pleased  him  the  most,  and  he  asked  me 
to  arrange  for  his  going  thither,  "the  sooner  the  better." 
And  so,  within  a  week,  he,  his  mother,  his  stepson,  and 
the  faithful  maid,  Valentine  Roch,  were  under  the 
hospitable  roof  of  my  good  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wain- 
wright,  at  Manasquan. 


XXXIV 
THE  FIFTH  ACT 

THE  Manasquan  River,  flowing  as  a  mere  brook 
from  its  source  ten  or  twelve  miles  inland,  gradu- 
ally spreads  upon  its  approach  to  the  Atlantic 
into  a  broad  and  shallow  lagoon.  Along  its  eastern 
bank  and  extending  to  the  coast  there  is  a  region  of  sand 
interspersed  with  a  stunted  growth  of  pine  and  gnarled 
cedars  twisted  by  the  ocean  winds,  while  dotted 
along  the  beach  are  hotels  and  straggling  villages 
from  Point  Pleasant  to  beyond  Barnegat.  From  the 
western  border  of  the  river  the  country  stretches  back, 
a  pleasant  arable  land  with  many  acres  under  cultiva- 
tion, and  a  larger  growth  of  woods.  Upon  this  western 
bank,  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  outlet  of  the  river, 
stands  an  old-fashioned  building,  showing  signs  of 
continuous  additions  to  meet  the  requirements  of  in- 
creasing "summer  boarders,"  which,  in  1888,  had  been 
for  two  generations  known  as  the  Union  House.  A 
lawn  slopes  to  the  river  bank,  where  there  is  a  dock 
for  the  service  of  many  cat-boats  and  dories  moored 
near  by,  and  the  bank  is  shaded  by  large  willows,  then 
more  numerous  than  now,  for  some  have  fallen  since 
the  days  when  Stevenson  sojourned  there.  I  had 
passed  at  different  times  a  couple  of  summers  in  this 
unpretentious  hostelry,  where  the  broad  river  provided 
much  amusement  in  the  way  of  boating,  while  the  near 
proximity  of  the  ocean  afforded  all  the  advantages  of 

407 


408      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

the  seaside.  In  mid-summer  there  were  many  guests, 
and  the  sorely  tried  hospitality  of  the  hosts  could  not 
have  sufficed  for  one  in  Stevenson's  state  of  health; 
but  I  knew  that  in  May,  before  the  opening  for  the 
summer  season,  Mrs.  Wainwright,  who  kept  the  inn, 
while  her  husband  tended  the  country  store  contiguous 
to  it,  would  make  every  provision  for  his  comfort.  I 
also  knew  that  the  older  part  of  the  house  was  of  ex- 
tremely solid  construction,  with  capacious  fireplaces 
and  rooms  that  were  proof  against  the  vagaries  of  our 
spring-time  weather. 

To  my  request  that  my  friends  might  be  received, 
cordial  consent  was  given;  and  Stevenson  and  his  family 
greatly  appreciated  the  wholesome  comfort  and  un- 
flagging attention  which  they  enjoyed  during  the  time 
of  their  stay  at  Manasquan. 

My  own  work,  unfortunately,  could  not  be  prosecuted 
under  the  mobile  conditions  that  Stevenson's  could, 
but  every  moment  that  I  could  spare  from  it  I  was  with 
him,  though  none  of  us  realized,  of  course,  how  near 
was  the  time  of  our  definite  parting.  Mrs.  Low,  who 
shared  his  affection  with  me,  stayed  at  Manasquan, 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  time  I  arranged  to  be  there, 
for  I  felt  as  never  before,  that,  as  to  the  members  of  his 
own  family,  he  clung  to  us  with  a  singular  dependence 
that  measured  the  depth  of  his  depression  more  elo- 
quently than  words.  There  were  indications  of  this, 
trivial  in  their  nature,  but  showing  the  arbitrary  and 
whimsical  fancies  of  a  nervous  invalid,  which  were 
utterly  at  variance  with  his  usual  patient  and  con- 
siderate care  for  those  about  him.  He  had  a  well- 
grounded  fear  of  the  contagion  of  a  cold,  for  instance, 


THE   FIFTH   ACT  409 

and  as  Valentine,  the  maid,  was  heard  to  cough,  Ste- 
venson at  once  decided  that  she  was  far  more  affected 
than  she  was  wilHng  to  own,  or,  indeed,  than  any  other 
member  of  his  family  considered  her  to  be.  Banish- 
ment from  his  presence  was  easy,  but  this  did  not 
satisfy  him,  and  the  poor  creature  finally  had  to  con- 
sent to  take  to  her  bed,  where,  being  a  person  of  strong 
character,  she  inwardly  raged  at  the  injustice  of  her 
treatment.  About  the  same  time  I  arrived  from  the 
city,  with  the  first  symptoms  of  what  promised  to  be  a 
severe  cold.  I  warned  the  other  members  of  the  family 
of  this,  and  sent  word  to  Loujs  that  it  was  not  prudent 
that  I  should  approach  him.  "Ask  him  to  come  as 
far  as  the  door  of  the  room,"  was  the  message  returned. 
This  I  did,  and  standing  at  a  distance  the  conversation 
had  not  proceeded  far  before  I  was  seized  with  a  smart 
fit  of  coughing.  I  had  hardly  recovered,  when  Louis, 
in  the  most  doctoral  manner,  announced:  "That's 
merely  a  nervous  cough,  you've  probably  been  smoking 
too  much.  There's  no  danger  whatever  from  a  cough 
like  that";  and  from  then  on  he  would  have  me  at  his 
side.  Fortunately,  the  change  of  air  aiding,  the  cold 
became  no  worse,  and  Louis  did  not  suffer  for  his  in- 
consistent desire  for  the  company  of  a  friend.  The 
weather  was  only  intermittently  good  from  my  point  of 
view,  but  Stevenson  found  it  to  his  liking,  and  was 
much  out-of-doors.  Aided  and  abetted  by  his  step- 
son his  interest  was  centred  by  the  cat-boat,  a  craft  new 
to  his  experience.  A  work  on  sailing-boats,  by  Lieut. 
Qualtrough  of  our  navy,  who  was  immediately  re- 
christened  TafFrail  as  more  appropriate  to  the  vocation, 
was    eagerly    studied,    and    theories    about  the   proper 


410      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

management  of  the  cat-boat  were  put  to  instant  prac- 
tical tests. 

My  suggestion  that  some  of  the  lank  Jerseymen  who 
loitered  around  the  hotel,  in  the  intervals  of  "treading" 
clams  or  pursuing  the  back-sliding  crab,  could  give  them 
practical  instruction  in  handling  this  craft,  was  laughed 
to  scorn  by  these  enthusiasts,  as  not  being  based  upon 
any  experience  of  my  own  as  a  practical  mariner,  or  on 
a  proper  appreciation  of  the  scientific  standpoint  from 
which  they  desired  to  approach  the  subject. 

My  own  knowledge,  I  cheerfully  conceded,  was  scant, 
but  it  was  a  comfortable  reflection  that  the  river  on 
which  we  sailed  was  for  the  most  part  shallow;  though, 
with  favouring  winds,  we  were  never  actually  reduced 
to  wading  ashore  from  a  capsized  boat.  We  sailed  up 
and  down  the  river,  Stevenson  being  greatly  pleased 
with  the  manner  in  which  the  laws  of  navigation  were 
construed  for  our  benefit;  the  draws  in  the  three 
bridges  which  span  the  river  in  different  places  opening 
promptly  for  our  cockle-shell  craft,  in  response  to  the 
imperious  toot  of  a  tin  horn  which  signified  our  desire 
to  pass  through  the  bridge.  Once,  when  a  train  was 
detained  on  the  railroad  bridge  in  order  that  we  might 
pass,  Louis  declared  that  the  sense  of  our  importance, 
shown  by  our  having  the  right  of  way,  was  most  gratifying. 

His  spirits  rose  in  these  innocent  adventures,  each  of 
which,  by  contrast  with  his  usual  forced  inactivity, 
took  on,  or  was  endowed  by  him,  with  some  spice  of 
romance.  One  afternoon  we  landed  on  an  island  a 
little  way  up  the  river,  whose  shore  upon  one  side  was 
protected  by  a  bulkhead.  As  the  island  was  nameless, 
we  proceeded  to  repair  the  oversight  and  christened  it 


THE   FIFTH  ACT  m 

Treasure  Island,  after  which  we  fell  to  with  our  pocket- 
knives  to  carve  the  name  upon  the  bulkhead,  together 
with  our  initials  and  the  date.  This  inscription  was 
there  some  years  after,  and  if  the  winter  tempests  have 
spared  it,  I  am  pleased  to  signal  it  for  some  one  in  quest 
of  a  Stevenson  autograph,  as  it  might  figure  as  a  unique 
specimen  in  almost  any  collection. 

This  obvious  duty  accomplished,  we  crossed  the 
island  and,  stretching  ourselves  on  the  sandy  beach  in 
the  sun,  we  discoursed,  while  the  soft  air  and  the  sense 
of  awakening  nature  that  comes  with  the  spring  lulled 
us  into  an  agreeable  realization  of  the  pleasures  of  in- 
dolence. From  this  the  lengthening  shadows  recalled 
us  to  the  homeward  hour. 

Our  covert  was  sheltered  from  the  wind,  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  island  our  boat  was  hard  aground, 
with  a  breeze  on  shore. 

"There's  work  before  us,"  said  Louis,  rising  and 
stretching  himself,  but  Lloyd  was  brisk  upon  his  feet. 
"Here,  let  me  go  and  sail  the  boat  around  to  you,"  he 
cried.  "You  may,"  we  cried  in  unison,  settling  back 
on  the  strand  with  one  accord,  as  Lloyd  ran  in  the 
direction  of  the  boat.  Louis  followed  him  with  his 
eyes,  and  then,  shaking  his  head,  said  with  solemnity: 
"Low,  we're  growing  old.  It's  only  a  little  while  since 
we  would  have  raced  Lloyd  for  that  privilege." 

Louis  had  at  that  time  taken  up  "The  Wrong  Box," 
which  up  to  that  point  had  been  entirely  written  by 
Lloyd  Osbourne,  who,  in  his  own  words,  says  that 
Louis  "breathed  into  it,  of  course,  his  own  incompara- 
ble power,  humour,  and  vivacity,  and  forced  the  thing 
to  live  as  it  had  never  lived  before." 


412      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

The  text  of  this  collaboration  Louis  read  us  one 
evening,  and  though  I  am  forced  to  agree  to  some 
extent  with  the  surviving  author  that  there  is  "a  sense 
of  failure"  as  one  reads  the  book  to-day,  this  element 
was  not  apparent  when  it  was  read  aloud,  as  Louis 
read  it. 

His  voice  was  rich,  with  a  peculiar  quality  of  vibra- 
tion well  under  control,  and  as  the  various  intricacies 
of  the  plot  were  deftly  disentangled,  and  the  absurdities 
of  Joseph  Finsbury  and  his  kindred  were  disclosed,  the 
colder  criticism  which  the  printed  book  evokes  fell 
before  it.  The  reader's  enjoyment  was  as  keen  as 
ours,  for,  though  he  kept  perfect  control  of  the  situa- 
tion, while  we  were  well-nigh  exhausted  with  laughter, 
he  fairly  beamed  with  joy. 

Not  the  least  wonderful — I  use  the  word  advisedly — 
quality  of  the  performance  was  to  see  Louis,  alert  and 
masterful,  making  of  this  trivial  task  so  complete  and 
finished  a  representation,  with  such  just  measure  of 
absorption  and  equal  suggestion  of  reserve  power, 
that  a  stranger,  entering  at  that  moment,  w^ould  have 
found  it  impossible  to  believe  that  this  easily  competent 
comedian  was  one  "far  gone,"  for  whom  "the  lights 
were  turned  down,"  around  whose  bedside  some  hours 
each  day  stood  anxious  watchers,  striving  as  best  they 
could  to  hide  all  trace  of  anxiety  and  to  equal  in  courage 
and  cheerfulness  the  victim  marked  with  a  dread 
malady. 

There  were  two  reasons  for  collaboration  with  Lloyd 
Osbourne;  the  first  one  eminently  practical,  inasmuch 
as  Louis,  being  an  alien,  was  an  outlaw  in  the  absence 
of  international  copyright;  whereas,  his  step-son  was 


THE   FIFTH  ACT  413 

an  American,  and  could  cover  their  joint  work  by  the 
safeguard  of  a  copyright  taken  in  his  name. 

The  second  reason  was  the  natural  desire  to  help  a 
young  author;  in  this  case  the  closeness  of  the  tie  giving 
even  greater  interest  than  that  which  he  evinced,  then 
and  after,  in  the  work  of  his  juniors;  "to  help  along 
the  boy,"  as  he  put  it  simply. 

Hence,  though  it  was  by  his  voice  that  we  were  en- 
thralled, Stevenson's  part  of  the  enjoyment  was  all  for 
the  triumph  of  "the  boy" — who  indeed  at  the  time  was 
scarcely  more. 

Quite  different  was  my  experience  the  very  next 
morning.  Stevenson  had  called  me  into  his  room,  and 
was  again  reading  aloud,  this  time  the  "Letter  to  a 
young  Gentleman  about  to  embrace  the  career  of 
Art."  I  listened  with  pain  and  indignation.  It  was 
an  old  quarrel  between  us,  a  quarrel  which,  even  to- 
day, I  cannot  recall  without  wonder,  that  one  who,  like 
him,  loved  as  the  breath  of  life  every  exercise  of  the 
artist's  faculty,  who  on  every  occasion — in  this  very 
paper  for  that  matter — lauded  the  nobility  of  thje  only 
workman  left  to  our  modern  world  who  works  upon 
honour,  could  in  the  same  breath  assimilate  him  with 
her  who  sells  her  honour,  and  call  the  artist  a  son  of 
joy.  It  was  an  old  contention,  one  which  for  years  we 
had  debated  together,  and  with  Bob. 

This  old  wrangle,  conducted,  as  were  all  our  differ- 
ences of  opinion,  with  vehemence  and  conviction,  but 
absolutely  without  rancour,  had  never  been  presented 
to  me  in  quite  such  dark  colours  as  that  morning  at 
his  bedside  when  he  read  the  "Letter  to  a  Young 
Gentleman." 


414      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

But  it  was  in  vain  that  I  raged,  that  I  protested  that 
we  were  not  prostitutes,  that  I  arrayed  all  the  argu- 
ments at  my  command.  With  perfect  good  humour, 
but  quite  seriously,  he  insisted  that  he  could  honestly 
hold  no  other  view  of  our  vocation,  that  his  conviction 
had  been  strengthened  by  the  sudden  popularity  which 
had  been  disclosed  to  him  since  his  arrival  in  the 
United  States,  which  he  thought  exaggerated,  and 
which,  he  believed,  would  be  as  suddenly  withdrawn. 
His  pleasure  in  his  work,  he  went  on  to  say,  was  in  no 
wise  diminished  by  his  sense  of  its  inferiority  to  other 
pursuits;  and  as  he  was  evidently  born  to  this  task  and 
no  other,  he  was  willing  to  accept  its  pains  and  its 
pleasures — to  take  its  rewards  and  do  his  best  to  earn 
them. 

"But,"  he  concluded,  "since  you  feel  so  strongly 
upon  the  subject,  we  will  ask  "Scribner's"  for  a  little 
more  space  this  month,  and  you  can  write  a  rejoinder." 
At  this  I  was  quite  abashed.  In  private,  and  led  on  by 
his  contention,  I  had  the  full  courage  of  my  convic- 
tions; but  for  the  moment  I  could  not  conceive  myself 
arraying  my  prose  against  his  in  the  full  light  of  pub- 
licity. The  project  pleased  him  greatly,  however.  He 
had  hoped,  in  the  series  of  papers,  of  which  this  was  one, 
to  excite  interest  and  provoke  discussion  among  his 
readers.  The  controversy  which  a  few  years  before  he 
had  conducted  with  Henry  James,  in  the  pages  of  the 
"Contemporary  Review,"  had  produced  some  such 
effect;  and,  for  a  time,  questions  of  art  and  literature 
had  as  a  result  been  debated  pro  and  con  in  the  public 
prints.  But  the  readers  of  "  Scribner's"  had  been  mute; 
save   once   when,   as  he   afterward   humourosly  com- 


THE   FIFTH   ACT  415 

plained  to  his  editor;  "a  lady  sowed  my  head  full  of 
gray  hairs  by  announcing  that  she  was  going  to  direct 
her  life  in  future  by  my  counsels." 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  assured  him  that  of  all  subjects 
in  the  world  a  discussion  on  art  was  much  less  likely, 
in  the  temper  of  our  people,  to  excite  interest  or  pro- 
voke controversy  than  those  treating  of  conduct  and 
morals  in  the  essays,  already  published,  which  had 
failed  in  this  respect.  I  also  mildly  suggested  that, 
while  the  powers  that  ruled  "Scribner's  Magazine" 
welcomed  his  contributions,  he  was  somewhat  usurp- 
ing these  powers  by  disposing  of  valuable  space  for  a 
friend's  polemics — of  problematical  literary  quality. 
But  Stevenson  scented  the  battle  afar  and  would  listen 
to  no  objection,  assuring  me  that  the  editor  in  question 
would  be  delighted,  and  prophesying  that  the  very 
violence  of  the  attack  and  the  rejoinder — for  he  begged 
me  to  "pitch  in  with  vengeance" — would  awaken  in- 
terest and  draw  others  into  the  controversy. 

I  had  learned  in  the  school  of  experience  how  very 
little  our  intelligent  people  are  interested  in  esoteric 
questions  of  art,  and  knew  that  Louis  misjudged  the 
situation,  from  the  standpoint  of  one  accustomed  to 
the  standards  of  Europe;  but  I  obeyed  his  behest,  and 
if  the  editor  of  "Scribner's"  was  not  precisely  de- 
lighted when  Stevenson  coolly  announced  the  arrange- 
ment thus  concluded,  he  was,  upon  the  submission  of 
my  rejoinder,  kind  enough  to  insert  it.  Our  debate  did 
not  greatly  stir  our  population. 

I  heard  more  or  less  comment  from  the  brothers  of 
my  craft,  and  at  the  clubs  and  meetings  where  artists 
congregate,  there  was  little  "romantic  evasion"  in  the 


416      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

opinions  expressed  concerning  my  friend's  attitude  in 
regard  to  our  common  vocation.  It  was,  moreover, 
generally  held  by  these  interested  critics  that  my  con- 
trary view  was  too  mildly  expressed,  and  so  I  feel  myself, 
looking  back  at  it  to-day.  But  it  was  inevitable  that  it 
should  differ  greatly  from  the  more  spirited  defence  that 
the  first  hearing  of  Stevenson's  paper  had  evoked.  I 
wrote  under  the  shadow  of  an  obsession  that  in  those 
days  was  constant  whenever  I  was  absent  from  my 
friend,  an  overpowering  dread  that  his  presence  in- 
stantly dispelled,  so  thoroughly  was  his  own  depression 
kept  for  his  lonely  hours,  but  which  laid  heavy  upon 
me  whenever  his  cheerful  presence  was  withdrawn. 
One  could  not  "pitch  in  with  a  vengeance"  when  the 
joint  effort  might  appear  after  the  obituary  notices  of 
my  opponent!  And  for  the  rest,  "perplexity  in  the 
practice  of  an  unfamiliar  art,"  must  plead  as  an  ex- 
cuse; for  I  had,  and  have,  such  overweening  respect 
for  a  man  who  knows  his  trade  that  to  appear  in  con- 
troversy with  a  master  in  letters  handicapped  what  I 
had  to  say  by  the  weight  of  the  effort  to  say  it  accept- 
ably. This  was  evidently  Stevenson's  judgment;  for 
when  I  showed  him  what  I  had  written,  he  grinned  and 
said:  "Rather  pretty  in  style,  but  expressed  with  less 
vigour  than  I  am  accustomed  to  from  you."  More- 
over, one  of  Stevenson's  chief  assertions  was  founded 
on  a  confusion  of  terms  applied  to  the  party  of  the  first 
part  in  certain  transactions,  which  neither  of  us  realized 
at  the  time,  but  which  Mr.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  dis- 
covered later;  for  the  dishonour  of  the  fille  de  jote  lies 
not  in  pleasure  but  in  its  traffic;  and  eventually  Louis 
was  forced  to  admit  that  the  artist  is  not  a  prostitute, 


THE   FIFTH   ACT  417 

though  the  "shorter  catechist"  in  his  nature  would 
only  modify  his  harsh  judgment  of  our  craft  by  sub- 
stituting "libertine"  for  the  "romantic  evasion"  of  an 
uglier  word.* 

Though  we  signally  failed  in  arousing  these  States  to 
a  consideration  of  the  status  of  the  artist  in  our  social 
scheme,  this  episode  was  of  some  personal  importance 
to  me  and,  along  with  much  subsequent  writing,  is 
directly  responsible  for  this  book. 

We  had  a  few  visits  at  Manasquan  from  chosen 
friends,  notably  a  day  with  Saint-Gaudens,  who 
brought  his  son  and,  at  the  request  of  the  sculptor, 
Stevenson  wrote  the  charming  letter  to  Homer  Saint- 
Gaudens,  that  may  be  found  on  page  125  of  the  second 
volume  of  the  "Letters,"  and  which,  sealed  in  our  pres- 
ence, was  only  opened  after  the  writer's  death,  though 
the  date  of  the  boy's  majority  was  fixed  upon  at  the 
time  as  the  humouros  ceremony  was  concluded.  An- 
other day  I  had  projected  a  return  to  New  York,  to 
figure  at  a  dinner  given  to  John  S.  Sargent  by  some  of 
his  confreres,  in  recognition  of  the  esteem  in  which  they 
held  him,  and  m  partial  return  for  a  royal  feast  to 
which  he  had  invited  a  large  portion  of  the  artistic 
fraternity  some  weeks  before.  Stevenson,  however, 
would  not  hear  of  my  going,  even  for  a  day,  so  closely 
at  the  time  did  he  cling  to  all  those  near  to  him,  and 
said  authoritatively:  "I'll  take  the  responsibility  of 
keeping  you,  and  will  send  Sargent  a  telegram  to  ex- 
plain it."  This  was  at  breakfast,  and  shortly  after, 
when  we  were  already  seated  in  the  boat  prepared  for 
a  morning  excursion  on  the  river,  his  mother  came  out 

*  See  "Letters,"  Vol.  II,  p.  374. 


418      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

and  said,  "Louis,  you  asked  me  to  remind  you  that 
you  wished  to  send  a  telegram."  "Ah,  yes,"  answered 
the  son,  tearing  a  leaf  from  a  pocket-book  on  which  to 
write  it.  "We'll  send  it  in  rhyme  to  soften  the  blow." 
Then  in  a  moment,  he  produced  the  following  doggerel, 
which,  as  I  heard  afterward,  was  read  at  the  dinner: 

I  have  here  detained  Will  Low, 

He  cannot  dine  with  you: 
We  send  you  from  the  bord  de  I'eau 

A  cordial  how  d'ye  do. 

"You've  a  devil  of  a  name  to  rhyme  with,"  laughed 
Stevenson,  as  we  set  out  to  sail  up  the  river. 


XXXV 

EXIT  R.  L.  S. 

INTO  the  trivial  events  of  our  daily  life  at  Manasquan 
there  was  suddenly  cast  a  more  serious  element; 
for  Stevenson  had  been  called  upon  to  make  a  de- 
cision of  the  greatest  import,  though  when  the  question 
was  presented,  and  on  the  instant  decided,  he,  no  more 
than  those  about  him  at  the  time,  knew  that  it  was  the 
hand  of  ultimate  fate  that  cast  the  decisive  die.  All 
plans  for  the  immediate  future  had  been  adjourned 
awaiting  the  return  of  Mrs.  Stevenson  from  California; 
or,  as  the  event  proved,  to  be  governed  by  conditions 
which  she  might  find  existing  there. 

We  were  at  lunch  one  day  when  a  telegram  was 
brought  to  Louis,  who  uttered  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise and  then,  tossing  the  yellow  paper  across  the 
table  to  where  his  mother  sat,  said,  "Read  that  aloud." 
She  passed  it  to  me  and  I  read,  in  its  brief  terms,  that 
a  serviceable  schooner-yacht  could  be  had  in  San  Fran- 
cisco for  a  cruise  in  the  Pacific.  "What  will  you  do  V* 
was  my  query,  and  the  answer  came  at  once,  "Go,  of 
course."  Before  we  left  the  table  an  answer  was  dis- 
patched, and  virtually  he,  and  during  his  life  those  near- 
est to  him,  "were  from  that  hour  the  bond  slaves  of  the 
isles  of  Vivien." 

Quick  as  had  been  his  decision,  it  was  in  no  light 
spirit  that  he  set  about  completing  his  arrangements 
for  this  voyage;    of  which  the  necessary  expense  was 

419 


420      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

so  much  greater  than  any  of  the  other  projects  that  he 
had  entertained.  At  the  death  of  his  father  he  had  re- 
ceived, as  part  of  his  eventual  heritage,  three  thousand 
pounds,  and  the  decision  to  risk  two-thirds  of  this  on 
a  voyage  from  which  he  fully  recognized  he  might 
never  return,  was  one  to  be  seriously  considered;  as 
he  had  those  dependent  upon  him  for  whose  future  he 
was  responsible  beyond  the  term  of  his  life.  It  was  at 
best  a  desperate  venture,  but  the  decision  once  taken 
he  applied  himself  to  the  composition  of  a  letter  to  the 
friend  in  Scotland  who  had  charge  of  his  business 
affairs  there,  directing  the  withdrawal  of  two  thousand 
pounds  from  the  capital  in  his  hands.  At  the  conclu- 
sion of  this  task  he  laid  the  letter  down  and,  with  a  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  from  the  graver  aspect  of  the  situa- 
tion, he  fairly  chuckled:  "I  wish  I  could  be  there  when 
this  letter  arrives,"  and  then  in  broadest  Scotch  he 
made  imaginary  comments  of  dismay  at  the  sudden 
dispersion  of  his  inheritance.  He  lingered  over  this 
fanciful  picture  for  a  moment  and  then  said  in  a  graver 
tone,  "Well,  it's  to  make  or  break;  and  there's  the  end 
on  t. 

A  voyage  in  the  Pacific  had  been  already  considered 
in  the  winter  at  Saranac  and  one,  who  from  admiration 
for  the  author  had  rapidly  developed  sentiments  of 
affection  for  the  man,  Mr.  S.  S.  McClure,  had,  on 
learning  of  the  project,  encouraged  the  undertaking; 
professing  to  be  able  and  willing,  by  means  of  the 
McClure  Newspaper  Syndicate,  to  place  a  series  of 
letters  descriptive  of  the  adventures  of  the  voyage  for 
a  sum  that  would  suffice  to  meet  its  expense.  This 
contract  was  afterward  made  binding  for  the   hand- 


EXIT  R.   L.   S.  421 

some  sum  of  ten  thousand  dollars,  and  was  eventually 
carried  out;  but  at  the  moment  when  his  decision  for 
the  voyage  to  the  islands  of  the  South  Seas  was  taken, 
Stevenson  felt  too  uncertain  of  his  health  to  count  with 
reasonable  certainty  upon  being  able  to  fulfil  its  con- 
ditions. 

The  die  once  cast,  we  continued  to  sail  the  placid 
Manasquan,  awaiting  the  moment  of  the  departure  of 
our  friends  for  California  on  the  first  of  June.  A  new 
interest  appeared  in  the  life  of  Stevenson  and  his  step- 
son, for  they  busied  themselves  at  all  times  of  the  day, 
and  at  intervals  of  all  other  activities,  in  drawing  up 
lists  of  stores  for  the  voyage.  Mild  expostulation  or 
computation  of  the  probable  storage  capacity  of  a 
schooner-yacht,  had  no  effect  on  these  dreamers;  they 
calmly  proceeded  with  their  interminable  lists  and 
scorned  the  criticisms  of  a  mere  land-lubber.  All  con- 
versation that  was  not  of  a  nautical  character  failed  to 
hold  their  interest,  and  "TafFrail's"  enchanting  pages 
usurped  the  place  of  all  other  literature. 

Our  quiet  life,  the  open  air  and,  above  all,  the  glim- 
mer of  hope  that  the  projected  voyage  inspired,  had 
worked  wonders  with  Stevenson's  physical  condition. 
His  main  physical  activity  was  still  the  somewhat  pas- 
sive exercise  of  sailing,  where  Lloyd  or  I  usurped  what 
little  manual  labour  fell  to  be  exercised.  Toward  the 
end  of  his  stay,  however,  he  had  been  able  to  walk  a 
little,  though  this  form  of  exercise  had  been  limited  to 
short  tours  inland.  One  evening,  after  an  early  din- 
ner, he  proposed  an  excursion  to  the  sea,  and  the  two  of 
us  set  out.  The  distance  by  land  is  about  two  miles 
and  the  route  lies  along  a  low,   sandy  road,  through 


422      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

patches  of  beach  grass  and  over  a  number  of  Httle 
bridges  that  cross  as  many  small  inlets,  where  the  sea 
has  pushed  its  way  into  the  level  land.  It  was  a  balmy 
spring  evening,  the  day  just  gone  and  the  stars  spark- 
ling faintly  overhead  as  we  walked.  Stevenson's  springy 
gait  went  lightly  over  the  yielding  roadway  and  I, 
solicitous  that  he  should  not  overexert  himself,  linked 
my  arm  in  his,  though  he  would  often  withdraw  his 
own  to  punctuate  his  talk  by  gesture. 

We  were  speaking  of  Keats;  of  his  single-purposed 
devotion  to  beauty  and  his  equal  conviction  that  It 
comprised  truth,  as  expressed  in  the  famous  conclud- 
ing lines  of  the  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn."  Louis 
quoted  them: 

Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty, — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

"  Keats  was  fortunate,"  he  went  on  somewhat  sadly, 
"  in  some  mysterious  way  he  belonged  to  an  earlier  age 
of  the  world,  where  such  belief  suffered  fewer  shocks 
than  it  does  with  us." 

"Nonsense,"  I  retorted,  "think  of  his  birth  and 
actual  surroundings,  of  the  men  he  knew,  his  pmch- 
beck  old  master  Haydon,  the  seamier  side  of  Leigh 
Hunt,  and  the  actual  state  of  taste  in  the  England  of  his 
day."  "There  were  Wordsworth  and  Shelley."  "Words- 
worth whom  he  admired  and  respected,  but  who  was  at 
the  opposite  pole  from  every  intuition  of  Keats'  nature; 
and  Shelley,  whom  he  avoided."  "No,"  I  insisted, 
"mysterious  as  it  is  John  Keats  did  belong  to  an  earlier 
age  of  the  world,  but  if  he  looked  at  the  world  about 
him  he  could  well  suffer  more  shocks  than  to-day,  when 


■Br      '  ^  '^tVf'                           ^^^1^1 

AV 

.   EXIT   R.   L.   S.  423 

we  live  in  an  age  which  he  in  part  has  inspired,  and 
where  the  men  who  came  after  him  have  continued  his 
influence." 

Then  I  recalled  to  him  a  promise  contained  in  one  of 
his  letters,  to  which  I  turn  in  order  to  quote  his  words 
correctly.  It  was  written  on  the  receipt  of  the  *'  Lamia  " 
with  my  drawings. 

"The  sight  of  your  pictures  has  once  more  awakened 
me  to  my  right  mind;  something  may  come  of  it,  yet 
one  more  bold  push  to  get  free  of  this  prison  yard  of  the 
abominably  ugly,  where  I  take  my  daily  exercise  with 
my  contemporaries.  I  do  not  know,  I  have  a  feeling  in 
my  bones,  a  sentiment  which  may  take  on  the  forms  of 
imagination,  or  may  not.  If  it  does,  I  shall  owe  it  to 
you,  and  the  thing  will  thus  descend  from  Keats, — even 
if  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  blanket.  If  it  can  be  done 
in  prose — that  is  the  puzzle." 

Thus  reminded,  Louis  said,  "Well,  as  you  see,  noth- 
ing came  of  it.  The  'Master  of  Ballantrae'  is  not  pre- 
cisely inspired  by  Keats."  "'The  Primrose  Way'  was 
inspired  by  more  than  my  pictures,  and  is  *a  thing  of 
beauty — and  a  joy  forever'"  was  my  prejudiced  asser- 
tion. *'The  gratitude  of  the  dedicatee,"  was  the  laugh- 
ing response  and  then,  more  gravely,  "No,  it  is  not  in 
me,  I  can  do  the  grim,  I  can  do  the  Jekyll  and  Hyde 
sort  of  thing,  but  the  trouble  with  me  is  that  I  am  at 
bottom  a  realist."  Here  I  exploded  into  wrath,  quot- 
ing back  at  him  Keats'  lines;  and  demanding  if,  for  a 
moment,  he  thought  that  any  work  of  art  represented 
other  than  reality,  as  the  artist  saw  it. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  replied  with  a  sort  of  gentle  impa- 
tience;   "your  old  contention  that  love  and  hate,  joy 


424      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

and  sorrow,  are  the  primitive  qualities  of  man  and  the 
material  with  which  the  artist  works;  that  since  the 
world  began  these  simply  reappear,  and  that  local  con- 
ditions, more  often  than  not,  enfeeble  and  distort  the 
typical  character  which  they  first  assumed  in  the  hands 
of  the  Greeks;  all  that  is  true  enough,  but  it  is  the  local 
conditions,  the  things  of  the  moment  and  hour  that 
strike  the  hardest.  If  it  were  not  for  Zola  and  his  gang, 
who  have  spoiled  the  game,  I  should  be  a  rank  realist." 

In  this  he  persisted,  meeting  each  contradictory  in- 
stance which  I  could  cite  from  his  own  work,  with  an 
exasperating  reiteration  that  none  of  these  had  really 
"come  off";  that  he  had  been  "feeling  his  way";  that 
these  were  "tries"  at  various  sorts  of  things — "various 
sorts  of  realities,"  I  interposed,  "but  not  done  by  a 
man  with  a  note-book  and  tape-measure."  "There  is 
where  you  mistake,"  he  rejoined  eagerly;  "that's  just 
what  I  am  really,  the  man  with  a  note-book." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  shore  and  were  pac- 
ing the  sand  where  the  retreating  tide  had  left  it  firm. 
Louis  stopped  suddenly,  and  put  his  hand  on  my  arm. 
"Listen,"  he  said,  "and  tell  me  if  you  think  this  beau- 
tiful." 

Then  he  described,  in  a  way  that  I  wish  he  might  be 
writing  it  instead  of  me,  a  scene  which  had  impressed 
him  from  the  window  of  a  railway  train,  in  some  of  the 
mining  districts  in  England.  It  was  a  black,  dismal 
country,  the  day  was  almost  spent,  as  the  train  wound 
its  way  by  squalid  villages  set  in  a  face  of  nature  that 
was  everywhere  darkened  by  the  coal  dust.  Here  and 
there  chimneys  belched  out  smoke  that  trailed  like  black 
plumes  in  the  heavy  air  surcharged  with  gases  from  the 


EXIT   R.   L.   S.  425 

furnaces,  which  flared  from  time  to  time,  lighting  the 
scene  with  a  lurid  copper-coloured  gleam  that  made 
the  ensuing  dusk  more  sinister  than  before.  Scattered 
over  the  face  of  the  landscape  uprose  miniature  moun- 
tains of  the  refuse  from  the  mines  and  furnaces,  and 
upon  these,  on  their  peaks  and  in  their  valleys,  miser- 
able hovels  struggled  for  a  foothold.  From  their  doors 
women  looked  out,  children  stopped  in  their  play  to 
watch  the  passing  train  or  a  hulking  workman  toiled 
up  to  what  he  called  his  home.  There  were  no  trees, 
no  flowers,  no  sward,  nor  was  there  any  vestige  of  the 
green  country  in  sight,  only  the  stark  chimneys  and 
these  truncated  cones;  like  the  floor  of  some  monstrous 
cavern  of  which  the  overhanging  density  of  the  charged 
atmosphere  made  a  roof.  "It  was  like  looking  into  the 
mouth  of  a  cold  Hell,"  said  Stevenson,  "even  the  fur- 
nace fires  gave  no  sensation  of  warmth  or  cheerfulness." 

"Yet,"  he  continued,  "in  these  hovels  men  and 
women  lived;  marriages  were  consummated;  children 
were  born;  the  man  went  to  his  work  in  the  morning, 
his  wife  watched  from  the  door  for  his  home-coming  at 
night;  the  children  had  their  play  upon  these  grimy 
heaps;  and  growing  up,  all  the  old  story  of  love  was  re- 
peated; they  in  their  turn,  took  up  life,  as  their  par- 
ents; their  eyes  closed  in  death,  were  carried  down  to  be 
laid  in  a  churchyard; — please  God,  a  green  church- 
yard." 

All  this  and  more  had  he  seen  from  the  passing  train, 
for  I  can  only  give  the  merest  outline  of  the  finished 
picture  which  he,  with  deliberation,  carefully  elabo- 
rated. I  was  not  a  little  impressed,  but  in  a  moment, 
our  discussion  reverted  to  my  mind. 


426      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

"Have  you  ever  returned  to  this  place  with  your 
note-book  ?  I  thought  not;  yet  all  of  this  you  saw  (and 
felt)  in  the  flash  of  a  train  and  then,  possibly  not  from 
one  place,  but  from  a  whole  section  of  this  country,  you 
realized  this  scene  and  imagined  its  significance.  How 
often  have  I  heard  you  revile  Zola,  and  even  more 
Balzac,  for  the  slow  piling  up  of  detail  extraneous  to 
the  movement  of  the  tale.  Don't  you  remember  the 
morning  in  the  rue  Vernier,  when  I  spoke  of  the  im- 
pression I  had  gained  of  the  country  through  which 
Alan  and  David  fled  in  *  Kidnapped,'  and  your  own 
proud  assertion,  which  you  insisted  that  I  should  verify 
from  the  book,  that  there  was  not  a  line  descriptive  of 
landscape  in  it  ?'* 

So  far  our  talk  resembled  much  of  the  disputatious 
converse  to  which  we  were  prone,  except  for  the  de- 
scription that  he  had  given  of  his  glimpse  from  the  train 
window,  which  was  more  studied  than  his  usual  care- 
less flow  of  talk,  and  in  this  vein  it  continued  until  I 
made  the  assertion  that  in  "Treasure  Island"  he  had 
written  a  tale  of  the  sea,  of  ship  and  island  adventures 
that  all  the  accumulated  detail  of  actual  experience 
would  not  enable  him  to  surpass. 

Frequently  we  had  been  as  of  one  mind  on  these  trite 
questions  but  that  evening,  undismayed  by  the  evi- 
dence of  his  past  work,  Stevenson  chose  to  disagree, 
and  repeated  his  assertion  that,  had  the  realism  that 
was  rife  in  the  arts  of  that  time  chosen  its  themes  more 
wisely,  its  practice  would  have  given  new  life  to  art, 
and  he  would  have  willingly  served  in  its  ranks.  "Zola 
and  his  crowd  have  spoiled  the  game,  or  very  nearly 
spoiled  it,  I'll  allow,"  he  continued,  "but  wait  until  I 


EXIT   R.   L.   S.  427 

get  hold  of  all  this  new  and  splendid  material,  and  you 
will  see  that  every  added  truth,  every  touch  of  local 
colour,  every  trait  by  which  these  island  peoples  re- 
semble or  differ  from  other  races,  sympathetically 
studied  by  one  who  thinks  our  civilization  is  a  ghastly 
farce,  will  make  a  fine  book." 

Our  argument  had  come  to  an  end  leaving  me — 
leaving  us  both,  no  doubt — quite  unconvinced,  as  ar- 
guments will,  though  it  is  a  fine  exercise  and  one,  when 
conducted  in  a  temperate  manner,  that  harms  no  one. 

The  tide  was  at  the  flow,  the  sea  had  turned  once 
more  to  its  ceaseless  task,  breaking  in  foam  out  upon 
the  bar,  foam  of  dim  silver  in  the  starlight,  and  rising 
ever  nearer  in  circling  shapes  to  die  upon  the  sand  at 
our  feet.  We  had  not  spoken  for  a  moment,  and  alone, 
we  two,  upon  the  beach,  the  world  seemed  very  large, 
the  sea  boundless  and  the  sky  without  limit,  when  Louis 
broke  the  silence,  speaking  at  first  as  though  to  himself. 

"England  is  over  there,"  with  a  vague  gesture  sea- 
ward; "well,  I  bear  her  no  grudge  though  she  has  cast 
me  out.  I  cannot  live  there  and — "  turning  to  me 
almost  fiercely —  "  Low,  I  wish  to  live !  Life  is  better 
than  art,  to  do  things  is  better  than  to  imagine  them, 
yes,  or  to  describe  them.  And  God  knows,  I  have  not 
lived  all  these  last  years.  No  one  knows,  no  one  can 
know,  the  tedium  of  it.  I've  supported  it  as  I  could — 
I  don't  think  that  I  am  apt  to  whimper — but  to  be, 
even  as  I  am  now,  is  not  to  live.  Yes,  that's  what  art  is 
good  for,  for  without  my  work  I  suppose  that  I  would 
have  given  up  long  ago,  without  my  work  and  my 
friends  and  all  those  about  me — I  am  not  forgetting 
them;    for,  with   all   the  courage   I   could   summon,   I 


428       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

would  not  be  here  to-day  if  all  their  loving  care  had 
not  added  to  my  courage  and  made  it  my  duty  to  them 
to  fight  it  out.  As  long  as  my  father  was  there  I  would 
never  think  of  leaving;  all  our  old  troubles  were  long 
ago  forgotten,  and  these  last  years  we  were  much  to 
each  other;  but  when  he  was  laid  at  rest,  I  determined 
to  make  a  new  effort  to  live.  Not  as  we  lived  at  Fon- 
tainebleau,  for  yo.uth  was  on  my  side  then — remember 
how  you  never  realized  that  I  was  less  strong  than  the 
other  men  who  were  there  with  us — but  to  be  the  rest 
of  my  days  a  decent  invalid  gentleman.  That's  not  a 
very  wild  ambition,  is  it .?  But  it's  a  far  cry  from  being 
bed-ridden.  I'm  willing  to  take  care  of  myself,  but  to 
keep  on  my  feet,  to  move  about,  to  mix  with  other  men, 
to  ride  a  little,  to  swim  a  little,  to  be  wary  of  my  enemy 
but  to  get  the  better  of  him,  that's  what  I  call  being 
a  decent  invalid  gentleman  and  that,  God  willing,  I 
mean  to  be. 

"There's  England  over  there  and  I've  left  it — per- 
haps I  may  never  go  back — and  there  on  the  other  side 
of  this  big  continent  there's  another  sea  rolling  in.  I 
loved  the  Pacific  in  the  days  when  I  was  at  Monterey, 
and  perhaps  now  it  will  love  me  a  little.  I  am  going  to 
meet  it;  ever  since  I  was  a  boy  the  South  Seas  have 
laid  a  spell  upon  me  and,  though  you  have  seen  me  all 
these  weeks  low  enough  in  my  mind,  I  begin  to  feel  a 
dawn  of  hope.  The  voyage  here,  even  with  the  bad 
weather  off  the  banks,  was  life  to  me,  and  in  a  better 
climate  on  the  Pacific,  surely  a  better  life  awaits  me." 

He  stopped  for  a  moment  and  I  was  too  moved  to 
speak.  Seldom  had  he  spoken  in  other  than  in  passing 
reference  of  his   ailments,  never  to   disclose  the  utter 


EXIT   R.   L.   S.  429 

weariness  that  his  voice,  his  gesture  and  his  words  con- 
veyed; at  the  same  time  that  his  sHght  figure,  tense 
with  his  determination  to  conquer  his  ills,  imparted  a 
sense  of  hope,  almost  a  latent  certitude  that  on  those 
far-off  seas  life  as  he  desired  it,  awaited  him. 

After  a  pause  he  resumed,  in  lighter  tone,  "Yes,  it 
will  be  horrid  fun  to  be  an  invalid  gentleman  on  board 
a  yacht,  to  walk  around  with  a  spy-glass  under  your 
arm,  to  make  landings  and  trade  beads  and  chromos 
for  cocoanuts,  and  have  natives  swim  out  to  meet  you. 
If  this  trip  really  sets  me  up  I'll  come  back  a  regular 
TafFrail  and  never  quit  the  sea.  If  it  does  all  that  I 
mean  it  to  do,  we  will  get  some  magazine  to  pay  the 
shot  and  let  us  do  a  book  together.  The  Ionian  islands, 
the  Greek  archipelago,  that's  more  your  game.  We, 
too,  will  live  in  Arcadia,  and  listen  out  for  the  sirens  of 
Ulysses."  I  was  used  to  this  transition  from  grave  to 
gay;  and  not  ashamed,  but  seeking  after  the  manner  of 
our  race  to  hide  our  emotions,  we  walked  homeward  gayly. 
At  the  door  of  the  inn  his  mother  met  us.  "You've  been 
gone  a  long  while,"  she  said;  "I  was  beginning  to  be 
anxious."  Louis  laughed,  "I'm  not  the  least  tired," 
he  replied,  "but  we've  been  quite  far.  Low  and  I  have 
been  looking  out  from  the  shores  of  the  Pacific." 

A  few  days  after  in  New  York,  Louis  said,  "Don't 
see  us  off  on  the  train.  We  can't  lunch  at  Lavenue's, 
but  we'll  go  to  Martin's  and  drink  a  bottle  of  Beaujo- 
lais-Fleury  to  our  bon  voyage."  So  this  we  did,  and 
so  parted. 


XXXVI 

ECHOES  FROM  LAVENUE'S,  AND  A  MEMORY  OF 
PUVIS  DE  CHAVANNES 

IT  is  useless  to  question  the  provision  of  nature  by 
which  the  future  is  hidden  from  our  sight.  How- 
ever much  the  final  decision  of  the  Fates  may  shock 
us,  the  steps  by  which  this  end  is  approached  are  grad- 
ual in  a  backward  view,  and  such  steps  were  the  pro- 
longation of  Stevenson's  voyages,  the  projects  of  re- 
turn, and  even  his  final  choice  of  Samoa  as  a  convenient 
point  from  which  at  Hawaii,  Ceylon  or  Madeira,  he 
could  once  more  reach  his  friends.  Nearly  three  years 
had  elapsed  before  this  choice  was  made,  and  ground 
was  broken  for  his  house  at  Vailima  and,  in  the  inter- 
val, none  of  his  friends  had  realized  that  they  who  bade 
him  adieu  for  a  space  were  to  see  him  no  more.  Even 
when  it  had  become  evident  that  he  could  not  leave 
Samoa  without  danger,  there  were  none  of  those  who 
were  nearest  to  him  who  ceased  to  cherish  some  hope 
of  going  to  him,  since  he  could  not  come  to  them. 

"  Pray  you,  stoop  your  proud  head,  and  sell  yourself 
to  some  magazine  and  make  the  visit  out,"  was  the 
message  of  his  very  last  letter  to  me;  and  before  this 
there  were  those  who  stood  ready  to  make  our  mutual 
desire  effective,  had  not  the  insistent  duties  of  the  day, 
which  in  retrospect  now  seem  so  trivial,  imposed  a  bar- 
rier that,  at  the  time,  seemed  insurmountable.     Mean- 

430 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  431 

while  the  events  of  Stevenson's  voyages,  the  incidents 
of  his  life  afloat  and  ashore,  came  home  to  me  in  the 
shape  of  letters  and  photographs.  This  part  of  his 
story  is  so  well  known  through  the  published  letters, 
including  those  specifically  known  as  the  "Vailima 
Letters,"  that  its  repetition  may  be  avoided  here.  Lim- 
iting my  recital  to  incidents  which  were  personal  be- 
tween us,  I  thus  bridge  a  space  of  four  years  and  come 
to  the  summer  of  1892. 

In  the  spring  of  that  year  my  patient  hope  that  I 
might  be  employed  for  some  larger  decorative  work 
became  realized.  The  commission  entrusted  me  was 
for  a  ceiling  in  the  Ladies'  Reception  Room  in  the 
Waldorf  Hotel  in  New  York,  then  in  process  of  erec- 
tion. Work  of  this  description  is  generally  done  upon 
canvas,  which  upon  completion  is  securely  fastened  to 
the  wall,  and  the  dimensions  of  this  particular  decora- 
tion were  such,  thirty-four  by  twenty-six  feet,  that  no 
studio  was  obtainable  in  New  York  for  the  execution  of 
my  task. 

It  had  also  been  a  number  of  years  since  my  last  visit 
abroad  and,  knowing  that  in  Paris  I  should  find  every 
facility  for  work,  there  was  a  double  inducement  to 
return  there  to  prosecute  my  welcome  undertaking. 

Meanwhile  "The  Wrecker"  was  in  course  of  pub- 
lication in  "Scribner's  Magazine,"  and  I  was  deep  in 
the  mysteries  of  its  plot.  In  its  earlier  numbers  I  had 
recognized  many  of  the  adventures  of  Loudon  Dodd 
in  Paris  as  based,  with  differences,  upon  experiences 
that  were  common  to  Stevenson  and  myself.  Some 
incidents  came  closely  home  to  me;  others,  of  which  I 
had  been  witness,  I  had  poured  into  the  receptacle  of 


432      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

his  retentive  memory,  while  still  others  were  the  com- 
mon knowledge  of  "the  quarter"  in  our  time.  All 
these  had  passed  through  the  alembic  of  his  imagina- 
tion sufficiently  to  remove  any  trace  of  violation  of 
private  knowledge,  and  had  thus  become  fairly  char- 
acteristic of  the  life  he  described. 

My  common  knowledge  and  the  pleasant  intellectual 
exercise  of  penetrating  Stevenson's  skilful  disguise- 
ments,  had  endowed  the  story  with  exceptional  inter- 
est, and  one  of  my  last  errands  before  leaving  for  Europe 
was  to  visit  the  editorial  offices  of  the  magazine,  and 
read  "The  Wrecker"  in  proof  so  far  as  the  manuscript 
had  been  received  from  the  author.  Each  month  after 
my  arrival  in  Paris,  I  had  followed  the  serial  publica- 
tion, until  one  evening,  on  leaving  my  studio  there  in- 
tent upon  a  walk,  it  occurred  to  me  that  another  and 
the  last  instalment  was  due,  in  which  I  hoped  that  the 
still  unravelled  mystery  of  the  Flying  Scud  would  be 
solved  to  the  satisfaction  of  my  curiosity. 

Therefore  I  bent  my  steps  to  Galignanis,  under  the 
arcades  of  the  rue  de  Rivoli,  and  purchased  the  July 
number  of  *'Scribner's  Magazine,"  which  had  just  ar- 
rived. Then  I  recrossed  the  river,  and  took  my  way  to 
the  restaurant  Lavenue,  where  I  was  to  meet  my  wife, 
we  having  decided  to  desert  our  remote  quarter  of 
Neuilly,  where  I  had  found  the  vast  studio  necessary  for 
my  ceiling,  and  dine  that  evening  at  our  favourite 
restaurant. 

On  entering  the  room  at  the  rear  of  Lavenue's, 
chance  led  me  to  the  table  where  nearly  twenty  years 
before,  I  had  sat  with  Stevenson  for  the  first  time. 
I  was  the  first  to  arrive  and  so,  having  told  the  faithful 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  433 

garden,  Paul,  that  I  should  await  the  arrival  of  Madame 
before  ordering,  I  turned  to  my  magazine. 

On  opening  it  my  eye  fell  upon  a  page  where  I  read: 
"Epilogue:   To  Will  H.  Low." 

Here  I  must  explain.  The  postal  service  to  and 
from  Samoa  was  responsible  for  many  sins,  but  none, 
to  my  mind,  greater  than  the  loss  of  the  letter  in  which 
Louis  had  offered  me  the  dedication  of  "The  Wrecker." 
I  had  learned  of  this  the  year  before  from  a  letter  to  my 
wife,  addressed,  as  was  his  habit,  to  his  "traducer";  in 
allusion  to  her  translation  of  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde,"  which  was  published  in  Paris  by  Plon.  Nourrit 
et  cie  in  1889. 

June  19,  1891,  Vailima. 
"My  dear  Traducer: 

"In  all  things  it  seems  you  have  done  very  well:  the 
keys  have  come,  but  not  yet  the  boxes,  nor  any  word 
from  the  perfidious  Burlingame.  But  what  am  I  to 
say  }  His  letter  has  probably  miscarried,  as  some  of 
mine  have  done.  For  it  seems  that  you  have  never 
heard  of  the  arrival  of  the  traduction,  which,  however, 
I  read  with  much  pleasure  and  which  winks  at  me  with 
a  yellow  back  as  I  sit  writing.  And  it  seems  yet  another 
has  gone  wrong — my  last  to  your  degenerate  husband, 
in  which  I  offered  him  (in  my  name  and  Lloyd's)  the 
dedication  of  'The  Wrecker,'  and  gave  him  an  order 
on  Burlingame  for  the  sheets  so  far  as  they  went. 
This,  I  believe  even  a  New  Yorker  would  have  an- 
swered. The  point  is  this:  Loudon  Dodd,  the  narrator 
of  the  tale,  is  drawn  a  good  deal  from  the  degenerate 
W.  H.  L. :  some  of  his  adventures  and  some  of  mine 
are  agreeably  mingled  in  the  early  parts,  and  the  thing 


434      A  CHRONICLE   OP^   FRIENDSHIPS 


might  seem  too  near  the  truth  for  him  to  care  about  the 
connection.  See  that  he  bears  this  sheet  to  the  trucu- 
lent Burhngame,  by  which  he  (the  T.  Blgme.)  is 
authorized  to  communicate  "The  Wrecker,"  and  do 
you  see  that  he  (the  degenerate  W.  H.  L.)  answers  it. 
He  will  start  to  find  himself  quite  a  TafFrail! 

"We  guess  we  shan't  want  the  skates  much  before 
winter:  though  I  daresay  I  might  use  them  for  razors 
— they  would  be  as  good  as  what  we  have.  But  the 
lakes  in  this  part  of  the  States  don't  bear  much  before 
Christmas.  I  am  fatuous:  enough.  I  can  inflict  no 
more  of  this  rubbish,  even  on  a  traducer.  And  with  a 
thousand  thanks  for  all  the  horrid  bother  we  have  put 
you  to,  I  say  farewell,  Yours  ever, 

"R.  L.  S." 

Hence  I  was  aware  that  "The  Wrecker"  was  to  be 
dedicated  to  me,  and  I  awaited  its  appearance  in  book 
form  with  pleasant  anticipation  of  the  apt  and  well- 
chosen  words  in  which  it  would  be  given,  knowing  how 
exceptionally  happy  Stevenson  was  in  the  form  of  his 
dedications. 

But  to  be  seated  in  Lavenue's,  and  to  open  the  pages 
of  the  magazine  and  find  the  dedication  embodied  in  the 
form  of  a  familiar  letter,  coming  direct  from  ultimate 
Samoa  to  the  very  scene  of  our  early  association,  was  a 
surprise  on  which  Stevenson  could  not  have  counted. 
As  for  me,  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes,  as  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  epilogue,  I  read: 

"For  sure,  if  any  person  can  here  appreciate  and 
read  between  the  lines,  it  must  be  you— and  one  other, 
our  friend.    All  the  dominos  will  be  transparent  to  your 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  435 

better  knowledge:  the  statuary  contract  will  be  to  you 
a  piece  of  ancient  history,  and  you  will  not  have  now 
heard  for  the  first  time  of  the  dangers  of  Roussillon. 
Dead  leaves  from  the  Bas  Breau,  echoes  from  Lav- 
enue's  and  the  rue  Racine,  memories  of  a  common 
past,  let  these  be  your  bookmarkers  as  you  read.  And 
if  you  care  for  naught  else  in  the  story,  be  a  little  pleased 
to  breathe  once  more  the  airs  of  our  youth." 

Echoes  from  Lavenue's,  indeed!  For  a  few  moments 
the  years  slipped  away,  and  it  was  not  hard  to  imagine 
that,  at  the  table  where  I  sat,  I  heard  the  vibrant  voice 
of  my  friend  and  looked  into  his  eloquent  eyes  as  he 
developed  the  theory  of  his  story;  in  the  place  where 
he  had  developed  so  many  theories — he  "and  one 
other,  our  friend." 

My  wife  coming  in,  we  once  more  read  the  dedication 
together,  I  enjoying  her  surprise  at  the  winged  direct- 
ness of  its  coming  to  greet  us  there;  and  later,  quite 
appropriately  in  Roussillon,  but  with  no  little  solemnity 
mingled  with  its  cheer,  we  drank  the  health  of  our 
friend  in  far-ofF  Vailima. 

It  is  not  alone  the  closer  intimacies  and  the  relations 
of  strongly  welded  friendships  that  seem  in  retrospect 
to  have  been  influential  in  one's  life  or  that  may  claim 
place  in  a  record  like  this.  To  an  artist  absorbed  in  his 
vocation  the  sight  of  a  single  masterpiece,  the  chance 
encounter  with  a  master  marks  a  milestone  in  his  ca- 
reer, and  to  such  events  his  mind  in  after  life  contin- 
ually reverts. 

After  my  arrival  in  Paris  I  had  discovered  that  even 
in  that  artistically  well-ordered  city,  a  studio  ample 
enough  to  contain  an  upright  canvas  thirty-four  feet  in 


436       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

heio^ht  was  not  easily  found.  I  was  almost  despairing 
of  my  quest  when  my  good  friend  Madame  Foinet,  la 
marchande  de  couleurs,  offered  her  services  and,  desert- 
ing her  shop,  went  among  her  numerous  cHents,  soon 
returning  triumphant  having  found  a  studio  sufficient 
in  its  proportions  to  house  my  projected  work.  This 
was  situated  in  Neuilly  and  was  the  property  of  Guil- 
laume  Dubufe,  the  third  in  generation  of  a  family  that 
has  enjoyed  celebrity  in  the  arts  of  France  for  the  past 
hundred  years.  Arrangements  were  soon  concluded 
that  gave  me  temporary  possession  of  this  vast  studio, 
where  I  found  ready  to  my  hand  movable  painting 
stages  and  various  conveniences  contrived  for  the  usage 
of  the  decorative  painter.  One  condition  M.  Dubufe 
asked  me  to  observe.  He  had  lent  the  studio  to  one  of 
his  friends,  who  was  making  some  studies  for  a  large 
decoration  which  was  to  adorn  the  Prefecture  at  Lyons 
and,  as  these  studies  were  not  quite  finished,  he  asked 
that  his  friend  should  be  allowed  to  continue  his  work 
while  I  was  preparing  for  my  own.  As  in  the  early  days 
of  my  possession  of  the  studio  I  found  that  the  tem- 
porary occupant  was  an  agreeable  companion,  and  as 
his  work  occupied  a  corner  remote  from  the  wall  on 
which  I  erected  my  canvas,  I  begged  that  he  would 
share  the  studio  as  long  as  he  might  desire,  and,  as  will 
be  seen,  my  hospitality  was  richly  rewarded. 

The  Dubufe  studio  stood  well  back  from  the  Avenue 
du  Chateau  at  Neuilly,  surrounded  by  a  plot  of  ground 
and  next  door  to  it  was  a  pretty  classic  structure,  also 
surrounded  by  a  garden  which,  to  my  great  pleasure, 
I  soon  learned  was  the  studio  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes. 
The  three  men,  among  modern  painters  whose  work  I 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  437 


have  the  most  admired,  arc  Jean  Fran9ois  Millet,  Pierre 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  and  Paul  Baudry.  In  France  any 
earnest  student  can  seek  men  like  these  without  other 
introduction  than  a  desire  to  profit  by  their  counsel 
and  be  virtually  assured  of  a  kind  reception.  Knowing 
this,  and  knowing  as  well  that  many  profit  by  this  cus- 
tom, by  which,  noblesse  oblige,  a  great  artist  is  at  the 
service  of  his  humbler  brethren,  I  never  sought  ac- 
quaintance with  Baudry,  whose  direct  influence  on  my 
work  might  have  been  greater  than  that  of  either  of  the 
others,  whose  criticism  I  should  have  valued  beyond 
that  of  any  man  of  my  time.  Nor,  despite  a  most  in- 
tense desire  for  the  benefit  of  the  advice  of  Puvis  de 
Chavannes  in  my  decorative  undertaking,  could  I  have 
vanquished  a  natural  diffidence  and  begged  this  privi- 
lege, had  not  good  fortune  served  me  here,  as  well  as  it 
had  done  in  the  case  of  Millet. 

I  have  said  that  the  work  on  which  my  new  studio 
comrade,  Louis  Edouard  Fournier  by  name,  was  en- 
gaged was  for  the  Prefecture  at  Lyons.  In  a  decorative 
arrangement  it  included  the  portraits  of  fifty  or  more 
celebrated  persons,  who  by  birth  or  association,  have 
been  identified  with  Lyons  since  the  Roman  founda- 
tions of  that  city  until  our  time.  For  most  of  these  per- 
sonages recourse  was  had,  so  far  as  portraiture  went, 
to  engravings  or  photographs.  The  conjunction  of  these 
documents  with  the  living  model  my  friend  found  to  be 
a  tiresome  task,  and  one  day,  pausing  in  his  work,  he 
exclaimed:  "Why  should  I  be  doing  this  when  next 
door  to  us  I  have  a  great  man,  born  at  Lyons  and  con- 
sequently to  figure  in  my  work  .?  I  have  a  good  photo- 
graph of  Puvis,  luit  it  would  be  more  interesting  to  do 


438      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

him  from  nature.  I  believe  that  I  shall  ask  him." 
This  he  did,  with  the  result  that  our  celebrated  neigh- 
bour graciously  consented  and,  at  intervals  during  a 
fortnight,  passed  several  afternoons  in  the  studio  v^hich, 
being  even  more  spacious  than  his  own,  he  character- 
ized as  "hardly  like  a  studio,  more  like  a  railroad 
station." 

A  long  time  before,  at  the  Salon  of  1874,  I  had  been 
subjugated  by  the  work  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes  for  the 
first  time.  "Charles  Martel,  conqueror  of  the  Sara- 
cens," and  "Radegonde  at  the  convent  of  Sainte 
Croix,"  decorative  panels  for  the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Poi- 
tiers, w^ere  his  contributions  that  year,  and  the  repro- 
duction here  of  these  superb  decorations  bears  witness 
to  their  quality.  It  seems  strange  to-day,  in  view  of  the 
assured  position  won  by  their  creator  in  the  art  of  his 
time,  that  work  like  this  should  have  been  greeted  by 
an  almost  unanimous  chorus  of  depreciative  criticism. 
Such,  however,  was  the  fact,  and  the  voices  raised  in 
defence  of  the  work  of  the  artist  were  few,  albeit  I  take 
a  certain  credit  for  my  early  perception  in  counting  my 
own  inaudible  protest  among  the  number,  and  even 
hesitate  to  qualify  it  as  inaudible,  considering  the  ve- 
hemence of  my  defence  in  the  forum  of  the  atelier^ 
where  there  was  scarce  another  to  do  the  great  deco- 
rator reverence. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  without  a  certain  emotion  that 
I  first  met  the  painter  of  these  works,  of  the  "Child- 
hood of  Ste.  Genevieve  "  and  of  the  "  Sacred  Wood,  dear 
to  the  Arts  and  the  Muses." 

The  great  painter  lent  himself  with  all  graciousness 
to  the  necessities  of  Fournier's  work,  taking  the  position 


Ste.  Radigonde  at  the  Convent  of  Ste.  Croix 

Decoration  by  Puvis  de  Chavannes  for  the-  Citv  Flail  at  Poitiers 
(Salon  of  1874) 


ECHOES   FROiM   LAVENUE'S  439 


required  and  "holding  the  pose"  in  tacit  recognition  of 
his  duty  as  a  model,  but  in  the  intervals  of  rest  he  was 
good  enough  to  manifest  much  interest  in  my  work. 
My  great  canvas,  occupying  the  entire  wall  at  one  end 
of  the  studio  and  stretching  upwards  nearly  to  its  roof, 
was  entirely  drawn  in  and  partially  covered  with  its 
first  painting  by  this  time,  while  I  had  a  completed 
study  on  a  smaller  scale,  which  gave  a  definite  idea  of 
my  final  work. 

I  shall  set  down  here  much  that  M.  de  Chavannes 
said,  although  in  so  doing  I  must  do  violence  to  my 
modesty,  for  all  the  kind  words  that  he  found  were 
accompanied  by  a  most  searching  inquiry  as  to  the 
conditions  of  environment  and  lighting  to  which  my 
work  was  to  be  subjected  in  place,  and  thus  they  con- 
stituted a  veritable  lesson  in  decoration,  possibly  useful 
for  others  than  the  fortunate  recipient  of  his  com- 
mendation. I  am  the  more  emboldened  to  do  this  also 
because,  on  one  of  the  half  dozen  or  more  times  when 
he  was  in  my  studio  his  kindly  approval  brought  to  my 
face  some  expression  of  doubt  as  to  its  sincerity,  I  fearing 
that  a  desire  to  be  overkind  might  constitute  the  motive 
of  his  praise.  This  his  quick  intelligence  evidently 
caught  from  my  expression,  and  there  was  a  momentary 
asperity  in  his  tone  as  he  said:  "Believe  me,  I  am 
quite  sincere,  je  ne  suis  pas  un  vulgaire  benisseur.^' 
This  last  expression  is  difficult  to  translate,  is  in  fact, 
almost  slang,  but  it  expressed  the  great  artist's  denial 
that  he  was  ordinarily  given  to  overpraise,  that  he  was, 
literally,  "not  a  vulgar  blesser." 

Under  this  potent  authority  I  may,  therefore,  un- 
blushingly    detail    commendatory    words,    which    since 


440      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

that  time  I  have  always  considered  as  a  quasi-patent  of 
nobility,  granted  by  this  monarch  of  decorative  paint- 
ing. When  I  had  left  New  York  the  Waldorf  was 
hardly  built  above  its  foundations,  and,  consequently, 
I  had  only  the  architect's  drawings  to  guide  me  in 
my  work.  This  condition  first  of  all  excited  the  sur- 
prise of  M.  de  Chavannes;  he  had  never  been  called 
upon  to  work  for  a  non-existent  building,  but  on  the 
contrary,  told  me  that  it  was  his  habit  to  visit  the  scene 
of  his  future  labours  and  there,  before  the  space  upon 
the  wall  which  he  was  called  upon  to  fill,  he  sat  until, 
as  he  expressed  it,  he  "saw"  his  decoration.  He  spoke 
more  than  once  of  his  "vision,"  using  the  term  in  de- 
scribing how  at  the  Sorbonne,  he  had  passed  several 
days  before  the  vast  hemicycle,  which  is  now  covered 
with  the  most  noble  of  all  his  works,  until  this  vision 
filled  the  empty  space;  "and  you  would  be  surprised," 
he  went  on  simply,  "  if  you  could  see  how  little  my  final 
work  differs  from  the  vision  that  came  to  me  then," 
I  asked  him  if  he  returned  often  to  refresh  his  memory 
as  to  the  surrounding  of  his  future  work,  or  if  his  work, 
once  placed,  often  demanded  retouching  to  ensure  its 
harmony.  "Almost  never,"  he  answered,  "for  one  who 
cannot  carry  these  conditions  in  his  memory,  and  be 
governed  by  them  throughout  his  work,  had  best  leave 
decoration  alone."  He  went  on  to  say  that  working 
without  other  aid  than  an  architect's  drawings  appeared 
to  him  most  difficult,  and  then  inquired  about  my  early 
studies  and  my  experience  in  decorative  work.  When 
I  told  him  that  my  master  was  Carolus-Duran  he  gave 
a  significant  smile,  for  at  that  time  he  was  President  of 
the  National  Society  of  Fine  Arts,  the  Champ  de  Mars 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  441 

group,  of  which  my  master  was  Vice-President,  and 
rumour  had  it  that  complete  harmony  did  not  exist  be- 
tween the  two.  It  was  with  shght  mahciousness,  there- 
fore, that  he  said:  "In  that  case  I  must  say  of  you,  as 
was  said  of  Courbetr  'pupil  of  yourself  and  of  nature,' 
but,"  he  added  more  gravely,  "since  you  say  this  is 
your  first  large  decoration  you  may  be  assured  that  you 
are  a  born  decorator — un  decor ateur  ne."  This,  as  I 
have  said,  was  preceded  by  a  most  minute  inquiry  as  to 
the  height  from  the  floor  at  which  my  ceiling  was  to  be 
seen,  the  colour  of  the  room,  the  direction  and  quantity 
of  light  it  would  receive,  and  the  different  points  from 
which  my  work  could  be  viewed,  all  of  which  I  had  fort- 
unately considered,  and  so  felt  justified  in  accepting 
some  part  of  his  approval. 

I  had  taken  an  early  opportunity  of  describing  my 
youthful  admiration  of  his  work,  detailing  some  inci- 
dents of  a  fairly  grave  quarrel  it  occasioned,  of  a  per- 
sonal nature  which  need  not  be  touched  upon  here, 
and  adding:  "so  you  see,  I  broke  lances  for  you,  in  the 
ranks  of  Charles  Martel  against  the  Saracens."  He 
laughed  and  said:  "I  had  need  of  it,  of  the  good  will 
of  all  those  in  favour  of  my  work,  for  many  years  be- 
fore that,  and  until  my  'Ste.  Genevieve'  was  placed  in 
the  Pantheon,  I  was  the  target  for  all  the  arrows  of  the 
critical  Saracens." 

The  sittings  for  the  portrait  gave  me  a  quiet  oppor- 
tunity to  study  the  distinguished  painter,  who  talked 
much  and  well  on  many  subjects.  He  had  great  per- 
sonal charm,  and  was  in  all  respects  as  fine  an  example 
of  the  thorough  man  of  the  world — essentially  hieii 
eleve — as  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  meet.     The  dignity 


442      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

of  the  position  of  an  acknowledged  master,  as  under- 
stood in  France,  long  emerged  victorious  from  the  bat- 
tles of  his  earlier  career,  lent  weight  to  his  slightest 
utterance;  but  he  was  in  no  manner  pompous  or  self- 
assertive.  I  had  heard  that  he  was  extremely  sensitive 
to  the  slightest  adverse  criticism,  and  was  wont  in  un- 
sympathetic surroundings  to  become  absolutely  mute; 
but  evidently  the  respectful  admiration  of  the  two 
younger  painters  created  an  atmosphere  in  which  the 
bonhomie  of  his  nature  shone.  In  attire  he  was  scru- 
pulously correct  without  foppishness,  his  appearance 
being  that  of  a  diplomat  of  distinction,  rather  than  that 
of  one  who  worked  with  his  hands.  In  his  own  studio, 
when  at  work,  his  faultlessly  fitting  black  broadcloth 
was  put  by,  and  he  was  clad  In  a  long  linen  blouse 
reaching  nearly  to  his  feet,  giving  him  with  his  finely 
poised  head  and  strongly  modelled  features  a  somewhat 
sacerdotal  air,  like  a  priest  of  the  "  sacred  wood,  dear 
to  the  Arts  and  the  Muses";  to  which  his  fancy  conse- 
crated his  devotions.  A  becoming  solicitude  as  to  his 
personal  appearance  was  amusingly  shown  by  a  protest 
to  Vami  Fournier.  "You  must  remember  that  I  have 
two  complexions,  one  for  the  winter  and  another  for 
the  summer.  In  this  hot  weather  my  face  becomes 
rather  red,  and  I  fear  that  you  are  accentuating  this 
appearance.  In  winter  I  am  much  paler,  and,  if  you 
don't  mind,  I  should  prefer  to  be  painted,  in  a  work  that 
is  destined  for  posterity,  with  my  winter  complexion." 
Fortunately  for  me  his  visits  to  my  studio  extended 
beyond  the  term  of  the  portrait  sittings.  He  had 
already  received  the  commission  for  the  work  he  after- 
ward executed  for  the  Boston  Public  Library,  and  was 


Charles  Murtcl,  torKjueror  of  the  Saracens 

Decoration   by  I'uvis  de  Chavannes  for  the  City  Hall  at  Poitiers 
(Salon  of  1874  ) 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  443 

a  shrewd  and  interested  questioner  of  the  conditions  to 
be  found  in  our  country.  It  was  in  vain,  however,  that 
I  urged  him  to  follow  his  usual  custom,  and  visit  the 
building  which  his  decoration  was  to  embellish.  "It  is 
too  far  and  I  am  too  old,"  was  his  response  to  my  urg- 
ing that  a  week  on  a  French  steamer,  to  be  met  at  the 
landing  by  those  who  knew  his  work  and  spoke  his 
language,  those  who  would  see  that  his  every  moment 
of  sojourn  in  the  new  land  would  be  deprived  of  all 
possible  elements  of  strangeness,  would  make  the  voy- 
age easy. 

I  was  able  to  tell  him  much  of  the  hopes  and  aspira- 
tions of  art  in  our  new  land,  and  I  have  never  had  a 
more  sympathetic  listener.  Some  of  these  conditions 
struck  him  strangely.  That  I  dared  accept  them,  to 
the  extent  of  undertaking  by  contract  to  paint  my 
ceiling  in  four  months,  excited  his  astonishment.  "It 
is  the  courage  of  youth,"  he  said,  to  which  I  responded 
that  it  was  rather  the  courage  of  necessity.  During  this 
summer  I  also  made  the  sketches  in  colour  for  a  series 
of  ten  large  stained-glass  windows  eventually  erected 
in  St.  Paul's  Church,  Newark,  N.  J.  The  freedom 
which  our  methods  of  working  stained  glass  permits  to 
the  designer,  was  entirely  novel  to  Puvis  who,  accus- 
tomed to  the  limitations  of  the  modern  glass  stainer  in 
France,  looked  on  my  sketches  with  something  approach- 
ing wonder.  "Can  you  obtain  such  full  colour  in  a 
landscape  background  as  you  have  indicated  here,"  he 
asked,  "and  your  draperies,  how  can  you  carry  out 
your  design,  as  you  say,  without  painting.^" 

When  I  explained  to  him  the  amazing  variety  of 
colour  and  the  myriad  forms  in  which  glass  is  cast,  so 


444      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

that  by  careful  choice  from  a  well-selected  assortment 
the  designer  seldom  fails  to  find  the  means  of  an  exact 
reproduction  of  his  design,  leaving  only  the  heads  and 
the  flesh  of  the  figures  for  the  painter's  brush,  he  ex- 
claimed that  here  was  virtually  a  new  art  and  said, 
almost  wistfully,  "I  wish  I  could  journey  to  see  it,  for 
to  paint  with  colour  made  transparent  by  real  light 
must  be  a  joy  to  the  artist." 

It  was  a  constant  service  which  this  great  painter 
rendered  during  that  summer  to  his  obscure  confrere, 
engaged  on  a  maiden  effort,  with  too  little  time  and  less 
experience  for  its  adequate  performance.  Whatever 
merit  the  resulting  work  may  possess  is  in  no  little 
degree  due  to  the  spirit  with  which  his  gracious  en- 
couragement endowed  me.  His  criticisms  and  his 
commendation  were  alike  inspired  by  the  catholicity  of 
his  judgment,  for  the  whole  character  of  the  Waldorf 
ceiling  is,  in  style,  at  the  opposite  pole  from  the  sentiment 
of  his  own  endeavour,  but  in  this  he  was  (as  I  have 
always  found  in  the  greater  men  of  my  craft)  the  better 
critic  for  his  ability  to  subjugate  his  own  point  of  view 
in  the  judgment  of  others.  The  style  of  Louis  XVI,  in 
which  my  ceiling  was  conceived  to  fit  the  room  for 
which  it  was  designed,  as  indeed  decorated  ceilings  in 
general  ("rather  than  paint  a  ceiling  I  should  prefer  to 
sweep  the  streets,"*  he  had  said),  could  excite  but  little 
his  personal  sympathy,  but  in  the  general  interest  of 
art,  he  cheerfully  entered  into  the  projects  of  the 
stranger    and    cheered  him  on  his  way.     At  the  last, 

*  In  a  letter  to  a  friend.  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  by  Marius  Vachon,  p.  35 
(Paris,  Braun  Clement  et  Cie,  MDCCCXCV).  A  sentiment  in  which  every 
decorative  painter  will  concur — save  when  the  architect  will  grant  no  other 
space. 


ECHOES   FROM   LAVENUE'S  415 

when  my  work  was  finished,  I  sought  him  for  a  final 
view,  and  I  am  not  Hkely  to  forget  his  kind  expression 
as  he  paused  at  the  entrance  to  my  studio,  where  be- 
fore the  opposite  wall  my  canvas  stood.  "I  congratu- 
late you,"  he  said,  "it  is  fresh;  it  is  Louis  Seize;  it  is 
like  a  bouquet  of  flowers.'* 


XXXVII 

A  GLIMPSE  OF  GIVERNY  AND  OF  A  DEPOSED 
FAVOURITE 

THIS  summer  abroad  enabled  me  to  make  a  brief 
acquaintance  with  a  village  community  of 
painters,  circa  1892,  to  compare  with  my  mem- 
ories of  Barbizon  and  Grez  of  earlier  years.  The  vil- 
lage was  Giverny,  and  as  tradition  rules  that  all  such 
communities  must  have  "a  master,  a  pontiff  of  the 
arts,"  Claude  Monet,  having  elected  residence  there 
some  years  before,  filled  that  responsible  position. 
My  friend,  Theodore  Robinson,  had  been  a  pioneer  in 
the  American  invasion,  which,  upon  a  brief  visit  paid 
him  there,  I  found  to  be  in  possession  of  the  village  inn. 
In  my  student  days  the  young  woman  votary  of  art  had 
made  but  a  timid  first  appearance  in  Paris,  and  the  leaf- 
embowered  artistic  haunts  of  Fontainebleau  knew  her 
not.  In  the  interval  that  had  elapsed  since  then,  how- 
ever, she  had  come  in  numbers  so  largely  plural  that 
the  male  contingent  at  Giverny  was  greatly  in  the 
minority.  Giverny,  as  a  hamlet  struggling  along  an 
unshaded  road,  offers  at  first  glance  little  that  is  pict- 
uresque. Through  the  valley  which  it  dominates  runs 
the  Seine,  and  between  the  village  and  the  larger  river 
winds  a  small  stream,  the  Epte,  with  pleasantly  shaded 
banks  enclosed  between  broad  meadows  gracefully 
bordered  by  long  lines  of  poplars.  Its  greatest  charm 
lies  in  the  atmospheric  conditions  over  the  lowlands, 

446 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  GIVERNY  447 

where  the  moisture  from  the  rivers,  imprisoned  through 
the  night  by  the  valleys  bordering  hills,  dissolve  before 
the  sun  and  bathe  the  landscape  in  an  iridescent  flood 
of  vaporous  hues,  of  which  Monet  in  his  transcripts  has 
portrayed  the  charm — a  beauty  which  escaped  most  of 
the  anxious  neophytes  who  were  (in  the  vernacular) 
"camping  on  his  trail"  in  the  summer  of  1892.  At  a 
later  period  when  the  first  vogue  of  Giverny  had  de- 
parted, and  the  hamlet  had  resumed  more  of  its  ma- 
terial quiet,  I  have  found  the  place  to  be  pretty  and 
peaceful,  but  at  the  time  of  my  first  visit,  I  own  that  I 
should  have  chosen  other  adjectives  to  describe  it. 

I  have  already  described  the  Anglo-Saxon  invasion  of 
Barbizon,  but  the  imposition  of  our  manners  and  cus- 
toms, which  were  not  altogether  those  of  our  respective 
countries,  was  confined  to  an  assumption  of  entire 
freedom,  to  dress,  to  act,  and  to  speak  as  we  pleased 
among  ourselves,  and  there  was  in  other  respects,  in 
all  our  dealings  with  native  guests  at  the  inn  or  with 
the  painters  or  peasants  of  the  village,  an  acceptance  of 
their  speech  and  conformity  to  their  traditions.  Above 
all,  none  of  us  would  have  been  so  hardy  as  to  interfere 
with  the  cuisme  of  Madame  Siron,  nor,  knowing  that 
lady  in  her  prime,  could  I  believe  that  any  such  icono- 
clast would  have  lived  to  tell  the  tale,  if  he  had  so 
dared. 

But  at  the  first  meal  of  which  I  partook  at  Giverny, 
Boston  baked  beans  were  served!  Poor  patient  Ma- 
dame Baudy  had  concocted,  under  the  direction  of  one 
of  her  guests,  a  version  Francaise  of  this  dish  at  which 
the  codfish  in  the  State  House  above  the  Common 
would  have  blushed,  but  the  presence  of  its  pretence  at 


448      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

her  board  was  sufficient  evidence  that  the  PhiHstines 
possessed  the  land. 

So  much  Robinson  confessed;  he,  the  pioneer  who,  in 
company  with  two  others,  had  "discovered"  Giverny 
a  few  summers  before  and  who  now  contritely  owned 
partial  responsibility  for  the  feminine  invasion,  as  he 
had  unguardedly  recommended  the  place  to  one  or  two 
young  women  painters  in  Paris.  Next  to  Monet,  he 
was,  indeed,  the  painter  they  most  looked  up  to,  all 
these  numerous  and  charming  would-be  impression- 
ists; but  he  was  so  ungallant  as  to  shun  their  society, 
having  a  room  in  the  village,  away  from  the  hotel,  de- 
serting the  table  d'hote,  and  taking  his  meals  in  the  little 
cafe  fronting  on  the  street,  which,  serving  as  a  drinking 
place  for  the  peasants,  was  comparatively  free  from  the 
invasion  of  the  gentler  sex. 

The  table  d'hote  was,  in  fact,  a  bit  of  transplanted 
American  seaside  or  mountain  summer  resort  in  mid- 
week, when  the  men  folk  are  busy  with  their  affairs  in 
the  city.  There  were  some  thirty  painter-esses  of  vari- 
ous ages;  and  if  there  were  four  or  five  painter-men 
present  they  were  so  outnumbered,  and  virtually  in  the 
shade,  that  my  memory  is  equally  shadowed  as  to  their 
personality.  It  was  a  strange  scene  to  find  on  the  border 
of  Normandy,  where  every  visible  surrounding  spoke 
of  France,  and  where  the  spoken  word  was  alone  and 
exclusively  English.  With  the  conversation,  however, 
the  resemblance  to  a  summer  resort  at  home  ceased, 
and  with  the  toilettes  as  well,  a  Fran^aise  at  my  elbow 
reminds  me. 

The  conversation  was  largely  technical,  "colour 
values,"  "vibration,"  "decomposition  of  tones,"  "the 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  GIVERNY  449 

orange  light  and  the  purple  shadow,"  was  the  burden 
of  their  song;  and  where  we,  old  stagers  at  Barbizon, 
had  talked  of  Rousseau,  Corot,  and  Millet,  with  an 
afterthought  of  the  Louvre,  of  Velasquez,  Titian,  or 
Veronese,  these  up-to-date  young  women  were  exclu- 
sively preoccupied  with  Monet,  and  an  occasional  ref- 
erence to  some  picture  in  the  last  Salon.  Two  or  three 
years  later,  in  art-student  circles  in  Paris,  Whistler  was 
"  discovered,"  though  his  masterpiece,  the  "  Little  White 
Girl,"  is  dated  1867;  and  then  "tonality"  came  to  the 
fore,  and  the  gorgeous  palette  of  Monet  was  steeped  in 
gloom.  Hence  it  seems  fair  to  infer  that  the  art-student 
— of  either  sex — in  the  lamb-like  innocence  of  youth, 
shows  a  sheep-like  predilection  for  assembling  in  flocks, 
and  following  a  leader.  The  particular  leader  at  Gi- 
verny  in  1892  was  much  perturbed  by  his  sudden  popu- 
larity that  summer,  and  secluded  himself  behind  the 
gates  of  his  beautiful  garden,  or  ventured  in  the  mead- 
ows, which  had  been  his  own  undisturbed  painting 
ground  for  a  number  of  years,  at  an  early  hour  of  the 
morning  when  their  precincts  were  not  dotted  over  by 
the  sketching  umbrellas  of  the  fair  invaders.  The  tenets 
of  the  so-called  Impressionists  forbid  the  relation  of 
pupil  to  master  for  that  matter,  as  their  motto  of 
"nature  seen  through  individual  temperament"  would 
seem  to  explain.  Theodore  Robinson,  through  familiar 
association  with  Monet,  was,  perhaps,  as  nearly  a  pupil 
as  the  master  has  known;  but  the  effect  upon  Robin- 
son's work  showed  little  sign  of  imitation  of  manner 
or  theme.  Of  another,  a  convinced  young  impres- 
sionist who  brought  his  work  for  Monet's  inspec- 
tion,  the   story    is   told    that,    after   carefully    studying 


450      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  very  evident  imitation  of  his  manner,  the  latter 
asked: 

"This  is  the  way  you  see  nature?"  "Oh,  yes,  that 
is  exactly  the  way  I  see  nature."  "Impossible,"  re- 
torted the  master,  "for  that  is  the  way  I  see  nature 
myself.^' 

In  another  year  or  two  the  sudden  wave  of  popu- 
larity deserted  Giverny,  and  the  bevy  of  student-esses 
deserted  the  meadows,  and  the  hill  slope  saw  them  no 
longer,  though  the  village  is  by  no  means  deserted  by 
its  artists,  and  since  those  days  I  have  passed  a  golden 
summer  there,  sheltered  within  garden  walls  in  the 
gracious  society  of  a  chatelaine  and  two  charming 
filleules. 

The  cuisine  of  the  hotel  Baudy  has  resumed  its  tra- 
ditions, with  hardly  a  memory  of  its  strange  deviations 
in  the  direction  of  the  American  pie  and  Boston  baked 
beans,  the  peasants  congregate  in  the  little  cafe  on  the 
road  to  play  dominoes  and  drink  petits  verres,  and  the 
guests,  fewer  in  number,  talk  shop — paint  shop — and 
discuss  newer  names  of  artists  more  modern  in  the  long 
dining-room.  Giverny  has  thus  seen  its  day  in  one 
sense;  but,  until  the  Seine  ceases  to  flow  or  the  sun  to 
shine  over  the  misty  meadows,  it  will  still  attract  the 
painter  as  not  the  least  interesting  of  the  many  artist 
haunts  of  la  belle  France. 

Let  me,  to  conclude  this  episode,  hasten  to  say  that 
this  glimpse  of  the  invasion  of  a  French  village  by  com- 
patriot amazons  of  art  must  not  be  construed  as  a  re- 
flection upon  the  woman-artist  in  general.  In  the 
past,  the  present,  and  very  certainly  in  the  future, 
woman  has  and  will  express  her  nature  by  art,  with 


A  GLIMPSE  OF  GIVERNY  451 

adequate  technical  master}',  in  directions  subtle  and 
characteristic  that  are  closed  to  man,  and  her  place  in 
the  art  of  the  world  is  already  beyond  dispute. 

One  other  chance  encounter  toward  the  end  of  my 
summer  in  Paris  comes  back,  laden  with  a  moral  of  the 
futility  of  an  artist's  popular  success.  On  my  various 
visits  to  France  I  had  never  sought  to  renew  my  ac- 
quaintance with  Munkacsy,  and  during  his  visit  to  the 
United  States  I  had  deliberately  avoided  meeting  him. 
Not  that  I  felt  the  least  rancour  for  his  ill-judged  advice 
to  me  in  my  first  year  at  Barbizon,  or  that  I  failed  to 
admire  his  work  within  certain  limits.  But  in  Paris  he 
was  upon  the  top  wave  of  success,  and  during  his  spec- 
tacular visit  to  New  York  he  was  so  thoroughly  ex- 
ploited by  a  picture  dealer  that  I  chose  to  forego  the 
dubious  pleasure  of  a  superficial  renewal  of  our  ac- 
quaintance for  the  more  certain  comforts  of  a  quieter 
life.  Naturally,  having  known  him  almost  upon  a 
footing  of  intimacy  in  my  early  sojourn  at  Barbizon, 
I  had  followed  his  career  with  interest.  Fortune,  artistic 
and  material,  had  smiled  upon  him.  No  painter  of 
foreign  birth  has,  in  the  past  century,  received  more 
honour  at  the  hands  of  the  French;  successive  medals 
in  the  Salon,  a  medal  of  honour  at  the  Universal  Expo- 
sition of  1878  and  a  grand  prize  at  that  of  1889,  had 
been  followed  by  the  cross  of  Commander  in  the  Le- 
gion of  Honour  in  1890.  From  the  first,  the  dealers  had 
fought  for  his  pictures,  and  marriage  had  increased  his 
wealth  and  social  position.  He  had  a  magnificent 
house  in  the  rue  de  Lisbonne  with  a  studio  that  was  one 
of  the  show  places  of  Paris,  and  in  every  way  he  seemed 
marked  as  one  of  Fortune's  favourites.     Stories  were 


452      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

told  of  visits  to  his  native  land  where,  in  Budapest,  the 
populace  unharnessed  the  horses  and  drew  his  carriage 
through  the  streets  in  a  burst  of -enthusiasm  for  their 
compatriot  of  world-wide  fame.  His  origin  was  of  the 
humblest;  his  very  name,  that  of  the  village  of  Mun- 
kacs  in  Hungary,  was  said  to  denote  that  he  was  a 
foundling,  and  the  story  of  his  rise  from  a  carpenter's 
bench  to  artistic  eminence  lent  him  a  romantic  interest 
with  which  his  great  stature,  strongly  marked  features, 
and  impetuous  manner  comported  well.  His  earlier 
pictures  of  peasant  life  had  been  succeeded  by  a  series 
depicting  sumptuous  interiors,  largely  painted  from  his 
own  surroundings,  animated  by  figures  in  modern 
dress.  These  had  their  vogue  with  collectors  and 
dealers  for  a  time,  and  then  to  continue  his  success, 
came  the  large  canvases  of  Biblical  subjects,  which 
were  exhibited  throughout  Europe  and  whose  trium- 
phal procession  through  our  own  country  can  hardly 
be  forgotten  to-day. 

The  artistic  appreciation  of  Munkacsy  had  hardly 
kept  pace  with  his  popular  and  material  success,  how- 
ever, and  artists  and  critics,  once  loud  in  his  praise, 
had  for  a  number  of  years  looked  coldly  upon  his  work, 
and  each  successive  Salon  no  longer  marked  a  triumph 
at  the  time  when,  by  chance,  I  met  him  one  morning 
as  I  was  on  my  way  to  my  studio. 

The  manner  of  our  meeting  was  somewhat  amusing. 
I  was  just  about  to  cross  the  Boulevard  Bineau,  at  the 
point  where  it  traverses  the  Avenue  du  Chateau  at 
Neuilly,  when  a  tram  car  stopped  on  the  boulevard  to 
permit  a  tall  gentleman  to  alight  from  it.  As  the  car 
once  more  started  up  the  boulevard  I  saw  that  a  woman 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  GIVERNY  453 

was  running  from  the  opposite  direction,  along  the 
avenue,  wildly  gesticulating  to  stop  the  car,  at  which 
the  passenger  who  had  just  alighted  turned  and  joined 
with  cry  and  action  in  the  effort  to  attract  the  attention 
of  the  conductor  who,  with  arms  folded,  stood  on  the 
rear  platform,  with  his  back  turned  to  both  the  late  and 
the  prospective  passenger.  As  I  happened  to  catch  the 
conductor's  eye,  it  was  easy  to  make  a  sign,  at  which  he 
promptly  rang  the  bell  and  stopped  the  car.  Smiling  at 
this  little  comedy,  I  crossed  the  boulevard,  and  then  saw 
that  in  his  agitation  the  tall  stranger  had  dropped  a 
portfolio,  whence  had  escaped  a  number  of  drawings 
which  he  was  now  stooping  to  recover.  As  I  came 
nearer  and  he  rose  before  me,  face  to  face,  I  recognized 
Munkacsy.  I  had  not  seen  him  to  speak  with  him, 
since  1876,  and  in  the  lapse  of  sixteen  years  my  appear- 
ance had  so  greatly  changed  that  there  was  no  answer- 
ing recognition  in  his  look,  as  he  thanked  me  for  my 
efforts  on  behalf  of  the  unknown  lady  who  was  now 
recovering  her  breath  seated  in  the  slowly  disappearing 
tram  car. 

To  his  evident  surprise,  by  way  of  answer,  I  asked 
him  if  he  could  remember  me.  He  looked  at  me  intently 
with  a  puzzled  air  until  I  mentioned  my  name  and  that 
of  Barbizon  and  then,  true  to  his  impetuous  nature,  he 
almost  embraced  me. 

"But  where  have  you  been  all  this  time;  why  have 
I  not  seen  you  since  the  Barbizon  days.?"  I  gave  him 
a  brief  account  of  myself  and  then  told  him  that  I  was 
at  work  near  by.  "At  Dubufe's  studio,"  he  repeated, 
"why,  I  had  it  a  few  years  ago.  It  was  there  that  I 
painted  a  ceiling  for  the  entrance  hall  of  the  new  art 


454      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

museum  at  Vienna."  I  told  him  that  I  knew  that,  and 
was  conscious  of  the  honour  of  succeeding  to  so  dis- 
tinguished an  occupant  of  the  studio  as  he.  "And  what 
are  you  doing  in  Dubufe's  studio.?"  "A  ceihng  also, 
for  a  new  hotel  in  New  York."  "May  I  come  and  see 
it.?"  he  asked;  his  tone  seemed  almost  eager.  "I 
should  be  greatly  honoured,"  I  began,  but  he  inter- 
rupted me,  "Yes,  yes,  but  when  may  I  come,  now — 
may  I  accompany  you,?"  Of  course  I  assented,  very 
sincerely  flattered,  yet  not  a  little  puzzled  by  the  strange 
insistence  of  his  tone.  We  shortly  reached  the  studio, 
where  my  work  was  nearly  completed.  Years  before,  as 
I  have  related,  Munkacsy  had  greatly  complimented 
my  earlier  work,  but  I  could  hardly  exaggerate  the 
terms  of  approval  that  my  ceiling  now  elicited  from 
him.  Upon  his  part,  indeed,  there  was  an  exaggeration 
of  terms  (which  I  better  understood  before  the  morn- 
ing was  over)  that  would  have  been  almost  offensive, 
had  I  not  failed  by  the  closest  scrutiny  to  discover  aught 
save  the  most  simple  sincerity  in  his  expression  as  he 
lavished  his  extravagant  praise.  His  encomiums  re- 
turned, however,  again  and  again  to  dwell  upon  the 
clarity  and  lightness  of  tone  of  my  work,  and  more 
than  once  he  repeated:  "Yes,  I  remember  you  were 
painting  much  lighter  than  the  other  men  at  Barbizon 
when  you  were  there.  It  is  evidently  easy  for  you  while 
I,  I  paint  black,  my  work  is  heavy,  it  is  the  bitumen. 
Bitumen  has  been  my  ruin,  every  one  tells  me  so." 
Surprised  at  his  frankness,  I  murmured  some  polite 
denial,  and  spoke  of  the  richness  of  tone  he  obtained, 
but  he  cut  me  short  repeating:  " Non,  non,  faire  clair^ 
il  ny  a  que  ca.^' 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  GIVERNY  455 

Then  turnino;  to  me  he  said:  "You  know  I've  built 
myself  a  studio  for  decorative  work  as  big  as  this,  and 
near  by.  You  must  come  and  see  me."  "With  great 
pleasure,  when  are  you  there.?"  "  But  you  must  come 
now,  touie  de  suite;  you  must  come  with  me."  His 
tone  here  was  almost  a  command,  but  remembering  that 
I  had  formerly  known  him  to  be  impatient  of  restraint 
in  his  work  or  his  pleasures,  I  started  out  with  him. 
Munkacsy's  studio  at  Neuilly  was,  if  possible,  even 
larger  than  the  one  that  I  occupied;  but,  whereas  mine 
was  an  admirable  work  shop,  with  every  convenience 
for  work  but  devoid  of  luxury,  his  was  fitted  with  hang- 
ings of  the  most  expensive  nature,  and  the  whole  aspect 
of  the  studio  was  fairly  palatial.  A  well-trained  servant 
stepped  forward  to  remove  our  coats,  and  drawing  for- 
ward chairs,  we  seated  ourselves. 

The  work  on  which  Munkacsy  was  engaged  was  a 
frieze  for  the  Parliament  house  in  his  native  country, 
representing  the  subjection  of  the  savage  tribes  of 
Hungary  by  Arpad,  a  national,  though  perhaps  legen- 
dary, hero.  It  was  about  sixty  feet  in  length  by  prob- 
ably fifteen  feet  in  height,  and  stretched  diagonally 
across  the  immense  studio.  Munkacsy  began  at  once. 
"I  have  been  ill,  I  have  been  very  ill,  but  I  am  deter- 
mined to  make  this  my  best  work,  and  above  all  to 
make  it  light  in  tone."  Then  calling  two  servants  he 
directed  them  to  set  up  the  sketches  for  the  work.  They 
were  three  in  number  and  painted  to  a  quarter-scale, 
were  each  fifteen  feet  long — formidable  canvases  in 
themselves. 

"There,"  he  resumed  eagerly,  "that  is  the  first 
sketch  C'est  de  Vacajou,  it  is  like  mahogany;    and  then 


456      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

I  was  ill  for  a  long  time.  Then  I  made  the  second  one 
there;  that  is  hghter,  is  it  not?  But  it  was  not  Hght 
enough,  so  I've  made  a  third  still  lighter.  And  I  hope 
that  the  big  canvas  may  be  yet  lighter  for,  faire  clair, 
voyez-vouSf  il  ny  a  que  ca." 

There  was  in  effect  a  progression  toward  whiteness, 
if  not  of  lightness,  in  the  three  sketches;  but  if,  without 
being  unduly  technical,  I  can  explain  that  as,  in  his 
usual  work,  the  painter  employed  his  rich  bituminous 
tone  as  the  basis  of  his  picture,  so,  in  these  later  exam- 
ples, he  had  to  some  extent  essayed  to  use  white.  The 
resulting  consequence  was  that  the  entire  composition 
appeared  chalky  rather  than  luminous,  and,  that  lack- 
ing the  contrast  of  the  strong,  dark  masses  customary  in 
his  work,  the  tones  of  his  flesh  and  draperies  were 
heavy  and  leaden.  Of  the  three  sketches  I  preferred 
the  first  which  he  had  apparently  rejected,  and  with 
some  hesitation  suggested  that  perhaps  a  retention  of 
certain  of  the  more  sombre  tones  would  give  greater 
brilliancy  to  the  lighter  passages.  At  this  he  reflected 
a  moment,  and  then  repeated:  "No,  no,  light,  there's 
nothing  but  that;  and  besides,  they  reproach  me  with 
my  bituminous  tones.  Every  one  is  painting  light  for 
the  Salon;  oh,  much  more  than  they  used  to  do.  No, 
I  must  paint  light."  There  ensued  a  long  pause, 
Munkacsy  gazing  fixedly  at  his  great  canvas  which  was 
only  partially  covered.  Suddenly  he  broke  out  in  a 
tone  whose  memory  still  haunts  me,  so  dejected  and 
hopeless  it  seemed  to  be,  to  come  from  one  so  favoured 
by  fortune,  so  visibly  surrounded  by  the  evidence  of  his 
long-sustained  success. 

"You  don't  live  in  Paris,  you  have  never  known  a 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  GIVERNY  457 

Salon  success;  you  are  fortunate.  It  is  pleasant, 
every  one  praises  you,  it  is  cher  rnaitre  here,  and  cher 
maitre  there,  and  year  after  year  it  goes  on  until  it  be- 
comes a  necessity  of  your  existence.  Then  they  begin 
to  pick  flaws;  my  Hungarian  pictures  bored  them,  so  I 
gave  them  Parisians;  and  then  they  called  my  work 
upholstery,  and  said  that  I  was  a  creature  of  the  deal- 
ers and  incapable  of  affronting  la  grande  peinture. 
Then  I  did  my  "Christ  before  Pilate";  un  vrai  succes, 
with  the  public  at  least,  and  with  the  artists,  too,  though 
some  hung  back.  And  then  they  began  to  reproach  me 
with  painting  dark,  and  since  then  there  has  been  no 
peace.  It  is  like  being  thrown  to  the  wild  beasts;  for 
what  does  it  matter  if  the  dealers  clamour  for  my  work, 
they,  too,  will  stay  away  before  the  critics  get  through 
with  me.  Even  now  I  hear  whispers  that  my  painting 
is  only  suited  to  Vienna  or  Budapest,  and  some  day  I 
may  be  obliged  to  retire  there  when  Paris  has  sucked 
me  dry.  But  you  see  I  must  paint  light,  or  adieu  to  the 
Salon." 

He  ceased  his  tirade,  but  its  tone  was  so  weird  and 
unnatural  that  before  he  had  ended  I  was  as  convinced 
that  his  reason  was  unbalanced  as  when,  not  many 
months  after,  confirmation  of  the  conviction  formed 
that  day  came,  when  he  was  taken  to  a  sanitarium. 
His  open  confession  to  one  who  had  become  a  stranger 
and  who,  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  Paris  he  was 
little  likely  to  see  again,  seemed  to  relieve  his  mind,  and 
he  became  more  restrained  and  quiet,  talking  on  gen- 
eral subjects  and  recalling  our  Barbizon  days  with 
evident  pleasure. 

At  last  I   left  him,   and   as   I   returned   to  my  own 


458      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

studio,  I  thought,  as  my  eyes  fell  on  the  work  shop  of 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  of  the  contrast  between  these  two 
Parisian  existences;  both  equally  typical  of  the  many- 
sided  city: 

Puvis  de  Chavannes  working  alone  and  unsus- 
tained,  save  by  his  high  purpose,  until  the  age  of  fifty, 
before  success  came  to  his  door;  the  modest  success  of 
being  permitted,  largely  at  his  own  expense,  to  paint 
his  "visions,"  and  find  places  on  the  walls  of  his  coun- 
try's monuments  made  ready  to  receive  them.  Largely 
at  his  own  expense  was  this  alone  possible,  and  fortu- 
nate it  was  that  a  small  patrimony  enabled  him  to  mul- 
tiply these  masterpieces,  for  none  of  them  were  ever 
paid  a  sum  sufficient  to  cover  the  expense  of  their  exe- 
cution. No  commission  for  the  decoration  of  a  private 
house,  at  a  generous  recompense,  was  ever  offered  him, 
it  may  be  inferred  by  the  absence  of  such  an  achieve- 
ment in  his  known  works.  The  only  adequate  compen- 
sation that  he  ever  received  was  the  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars which  our  fortunately  opulent  country  afforded  for 
the  work  in  the  Boston  Public  Library.  Him  I  had  seen 
that  summer,  rich  only  in  years  and  honour,  happy  and 
contented  in  his  work  and  with  his  lot. 

The  other,  the  lesser  man,  fickle  Paris  had  acclaimed 
on  his  first  appearance,  had  showered  upon  his  facile 
work  gold  and  honours  which  in  his  hands  had  turned 
to  dross  and  discontent;  and  then  demanded  more 
than  he  could  give. 

Again,  as  many  times  before,  came  the  thought  of 
the  loaf  and  contentment  therewith  that  alone  com- 
ports with  the  essential  well-being  of  the  artist. 


XXXVIII 
A  LINK  BROKEN— OTHERS  TAKEN  UP 

SO  prone  were  the  journals  of  the  time  to  fill  their 
columns  with  reports  concerning  Louis  Steven- 
son, reports  more  often  than  not  fictitious,  that  he 
had  laid  an  injunction  on  all  his  friends  never  to  be- 
lieve anything  printed  about  him  without  confirmation 
from  himself  or  his  family.  Hence,  though  the  blow 
was  severe,  to  open  the  paper  one  morning  and  find  the 
report  of  his  death,  it  was  not  till  later,  when  the  cir- 
cular letter  written  by  Lloyd  Osbourne  came,  that  per- 
sistent hope  ceased  whispering  that  this,  like  previous 
reports,  was  false.  With  the  story  of  that  last  day,  the 
third  of  December,  1894,  so  circumstantially  and  feel- 
ingly described  by  his  step-son,  in  my  hands,  doubt  was 
no  longer  possible,  but  realization  was  still  far  off.  Not 
days  alone  nor  weeks  were  to  pass;  it  has  hardly  ceased 
to-day,  without  the  thought  arising,  when  some  prob- 
lem of  conduct,  art,  or  letters  came  to  my  mind,  "What 
will  Stevenson  have  to  say  to  this  .?"  Others,  very  near 
and  dear,  have  gone  and  the  place  they  filled  has  re- 
mained vacant;  but,  with  the  cessation  of  his  life,  an 
abiding  sense  of  his  continued  activity  remained,  and 
the  grave  on  Vaea  mountain  has  failed  to  emprison  his 
spirit.  It  is  well  to  be  precise  at  this  point,  for  I  have 
rarely  felt  myself  more  misunderstood  than  when,  upon 
some  assertion  of  this  description,  an  amiable  gentle- 
man, whose  spiritualistic  belief  1    ignored,  ofi^ered   to 

459 


460      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

put  me  in  actual  communion  with  my  departed  friend. 
Nothing  so  occult — or  material — was  in  my  mind;  but 
rather  a  survival  of  habit  engendered  by  his  influence, 
so  daringly  speculative,  so  generously  illuminative, 
that  it  was  difficult  to  realize  that  "a  wilful  convulsion 
of  brute  nature"  could  arrest  it. 

Many  readers  of  Stevenson  have  testified  to  the  con- 
tinuity of  his  influence,  to  a  greater  degree,  perhaps, 
than  that  of  any  writer  of  our  time,  and  it  is  but  natural 
that  others,  who  shared  personal  intimacy  with  the 
man,  should  retain  a  sense  of  his  spiritual  presence 
that  has  far  outlasted  his  life.  The  remoteness  of 
Samoa  had  already  endowed  the  uncertainties  of  our 
correspondence  with  a  sense  of  telepathic  communica- 
tion, on  my  part  at  least;  and  something  of  this  has 
mercifully  survived. 

It  was  some  recognition  of  this  sentiment  that  lent  a 
sense  of  the  merely  temporary  absence  of  Louis  to  the 
conversations  with  his  mother  in  Edinburgh  the  follow- 
ing  summer;  and  later,  when  I  rejoined  Bob  in  Lon- 
don, and  saw  him  constantly  for  a  space  of  three  weeks, 
we  tacitly  agreed  that  our  former  companion  was  hardly 
further  removed  than  he  had  been  since  he  had  van- 
ished beyond  the  sunset  to  his  far-off  tropic  island. 
They  were  brave  hours  that  I  passed  with  Bob. 

With  others,  with  one  above  all,  of  whom  more  here- 
after, there  was  a  shadow  of  depreciation,  indefinable, 
half  jealous,  of  the  writer  whose  universal  recognition 
had  grown  since  he  had  left  England,  appreciated  by  the 
few,  but,  to  the  greater  public,  merely  a  young  author 
emerging  from  obscurity.  With  Bob  there  was  naught 
of  this.     For  the  comrade  of  his  youth,  for  the  friend  of 


A  LINK   BROKEN  461 

later  years,  there  was  more  than  cousinly  affection. 
He  retained  the  exact  relation,  which  had  subsisted  and 
was  shared  between  us,  since  our  earher  days;  a  friend- 
ship that  no  elevation  would  remove  beyond  our  touch, 
that  no  inconsistency  could  loose  from  our  hold;  a  tem- 
perate, sane  and  human  bond,  welded  by  common  faith 
in  gallant  and  sustained  effort,  and  common  charity  for 
casual  and  temporary  failure. 

Concerning  the  artist  and  his  works  we  were  likewise 
in  accord,  esteeming,  even  above  the  merit  of  his  varied 
production,  the  spirit  that  had  led  him  in  so  many  di- 
rections over  the  fair  field  of  letters,  and  thus  enabled 
him  to  escape  the  thraldom  of  specialization,  in  which 
so  much  of  our  literature  and  our  art  is  bound.  This 
we  held  to  be  the  essential  quality  of  the  true  artist, 
when,  as  in  his  case,  the  interest  of  the  theme  was  coup- 
led with  the  capacity  of  expression,  the  sufficiency  of 
the  craftsman  who  paints  his  miniature  with  another 
touch  than  that  with  which  he  attacks  his  panorama. 
Better,  we  believed,  in  common  I  think  with  all  who 
knew  the  man,  to  have  left  his  "great  work"  undone, 
than  to  have  failed  to  give  the  world  the  spectacle  of 
the  artist  of  wider  scope  to  whom:  "The  world  is  so 
full  of  a  number  of  things,"  that  prose  and  poetry, 
romance  of  adventure,  romance  of  character,  essays 
on  life,  conduct,  or  art,  impressions  of  travel,  remem- 
brances of  childhood,  twice-told  tales  of  ancestral  worth, 
or  the  modest  biography  of  his  teacher  and  friend, 
must  one  and  all  yield  something  of  their  honey  to  the 
insatiable  and  industrious  bee  that  buzzed  in  his  bon- 
net. And,  like  others,  we  doffed  our  bonnets  to  the 
noble  fragment  of  "Weir  of  Hermiston,"  and  believed 


462      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

that  the  hive  had  been  shattered  at  the  moment  when 
it  was  about  to  give  up  its  richest  store. 

Under  the  spell  of  old  habit,  we  took  sides  against 
Louis  upon  certain  points.  One  of  these  would  seem 
to  savour  of  ingratitude  on  the  part  of  a  dedicatee,  if 
the  contention  had  not  arisen  in  his  lifetime,  and  had 
not  been  debated  between  us,  and  if  Bob  had  not  con- 
firmed his  views  by  a  passage  in  a  letter  found  among 
his  papers  after  his  death,  a  letter  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Low,  and  for  some  reason  never  finished  and  never 
sent  until  it  reached  us,  like  a  voice  from  outre  tomhe. 
It  is  undated  but  it  evidently  preceded  the  death  of 
Louis. 

"I  have  only  just  read  *The  Wrecker,'  owing  to  the 
miscarriage  of  the  copy  Louis  sent  me.  I  think  he  mis- 
understands and  undervalues  the  glimpses  of  the  life 
he  saw  in  Paris.  Miserable  wretched  Briton  as  I  was, 
penetrated  with  base  Anglicism,  unbeknown  to  me, 
when  I  was  there,  now  it  is  in  the  past  I  recollect  it 
differently." 

So  also,  as  is  evident  in  these  pages,  was  my  recollec- 
tion of  Gallic  influences  and  I  had  taxed  Louis  with 
allowing  the  upper  hand  to  the  "shorter  catechist,"  in 
his  consideration  of  Parisian  student  life.  In  reply  he 
had  written: 

"About  'The  Wrecker' — rather  late  days,  and  I  still 
suspect  I  had  somehow  offended  you;  however,  all's 
well  that  ends  well  and  I  am  glad  I  am  forgiven — did 
you  not  fail  to  appreciate  the  attitude  of  Dodd  .?  He 
was  a  fizzle  and  a  stick,  he  knew  it,  he  knew  nothing 
else,  and  there  is  an  undercurrent  of  bitterness  in  him." 

It  seemed  to  me  then,  as  it  still  appears  to  me,  that 


A  LINK   BROKEN  463 


on  every  occasion  when  Louis  was  able  to  base  his  ob- 
servation on  experiences  of  his  own,  as  in  the  deHghtfuI 
pages  of  his  essay  on  "  Fontainebleau — Village  Com- 
munities of  Painters,"  he  was  appreciative,  without 
flattery,  and  critical  without  injustice  to  the  life  that 
was  led  and  to  the  characters  of  the  actors  therein.  In 
the  Paris  scenes  of  "The  Wrecker,"  or  rather  in  their 
reflective  portion,  he  speaks  in  the  more  conventional 
tone  of  an  outsider  and,  in  point  of  fact,  he  had  mingled 
less  in  the  Parisian  life  of  the  student  than  he  had 
known  him  in  his  holiday  time  in  the  country,  and  de- 
pended more  on  information  at  second-hand,  and  on 
the  common  reports  of  the  quarter.  In  the  early  days, 
but  after  my  return  home.  Bob  had  continued  his 
acquaintance  with  some  of  my  French  friends,  espe- 
cially with  Gaudez  who,  all  in  all,  embodied  the  view  of 
life  and  art  from  the  Gallic  standpoint  better  than  any 
man  I  ever  knew,  and  under  this  influence  the  Angli- 
cism of  his  appreciation  had  been  modified.  Louis  had 
lacked  this  corrective  of  the  prejudices  that  for  centuries 
have  divided  the  neighbours  across  the  Channel;  and, 
though  of  the  two  cousins  he  was  by  nature  the  least  of 
a  Briton,  he  permits  Loudon  Dodd,  fizzle  and  stick 
though  he  may  be,  to  speak  occasionally  with  the  voice 
cf  Samuel  Budgett. 

Life,  so  long  as  life  remains,  has  always  a  present 
and  a  future;  nature  heals  the  scars  of  winter  with  a 
new  growth  of  flowers;  and  though  this  reminiscent 
mood  was  frequent  in  our  converse,  the  present  had 
interests  no  less  keenly  felt.  At  our  first  meeting  Bob 
had  learned  that  I  had  not  visited  the  Royal  Academy 
Exhibition    then    open,  and    eagerly  suggested    that    I 


464      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

should  first  see  it  in  his  company.  He  had  a  reason  for 
this,  he  averred,  and  so  we  appointed  a  meeting  for  the 
following  morning,  to  which  he  was  punctual.  Beg- 
ging me  to  resign  myself  to  his  control  he  led  me  rapidly 
through  the  galleries  until  we  stood  before  the  portrait 
by  John  Sargent  of  "W.  Graham  Robertson,"  then  a 
young  aesthete  and  artist  of  the  London  world.  This 
depicted  a  tall  young  man,  encased  in  a  frock  coat  of 
exaggerated  length,  reaching  nearly  to  the  feet.  The 
background  was  neutral  in  tone,  the  indication  of  a 
portfolio  on  its  stand  emerged  from  the  shadow  and, 
lying  on  the  floor  back  of  the  figure,  was  a  large  French 
poodle  fantastically  shorn.  One  hand  of  the  figure 
rested  on  a  cane,  the  handle  of  which  was  a  vivid  blue 
stone,  presumably  lapis  lazuli,  which,  together  with  the 
head  of  the  portrait,  gave  its  only  notes  of  strong  colour; 
the  coat,  the  background  and  the  poodle  being  tones  of 
black  in  exquisite  value  and  truth  of  gradation.  The 
portrait  ranks  high  among  the  better-known  works  of 
Sargent,  and  we  stood  before  it  for  a  long  time,  ex- 
changing words  of  appreciative  admiration.  Then,  by 
quick  transition,  I  was  led  before  "Flaming  June,"  by 
Sir  Frederick  Leighton.  This  is  also  well  known 
among  its  authors'  works,  and  is  as  antithetical  to  Sar- 
gent's painting  as  can  be  imagined.  A  maiden  of  the 
Anglo-Greek  type,  familiar  to  the  production  of  this 
painter,  sits  in  a  languorous  attitude,  her  body  bent 
upon  itself  almost  describing  a  circle.  Her  draperies, 
broken  into  little  rippling  folds,  are  brilliant  orange  in 
colour  and  the  scheme  of  the  picture  runs  the  gamut  of 
yellow  tones,  harmonious  and  rich,  which  with  the  form, 
drawn  with  the  chastened   perfection  of  this  master, 


A  LINK   BROKEN  465 

make  up  a  striking  picture  of  decorative  aspect.  Here 
again,  influenced  by  difi^erent  motives,  we  could  sin- 
cerely admire. 

"Nov^,"  said  Bob  at  the  conclusion  of  this  experi- 
ence, "we  can  look  at  the  rest  of  the  show.  I  wished 
you  to  see  these  two  pictures  first,  for  these  two  gentle- 
men know  their  trade;  each  in  his  way,  of  course,  but 
as  there  is  nothing  rarer  in  England  than  this  full 
capacity,  it  was  worth  while  to  begin  with  these." 

With  this  preamble  we  gave  ourselves  up  to  the  in- 
spection of  the  exhibition,  returning  there  twice  on 
other  days  and  finding,  despite  this  drastic  introduc- 
tion, much  that  interested  us.  My  friend's  comments 
were  to  me  not  the  least  interesting,  and  I  noted  the 
growth  and  broadening  of  his  sympathies  in  art  no  less 
than  the  happy  turns  of  expression  which,  if  I  could 
remember,  would  supply  a  running  comment  on  the 
Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of  1895,  less  formal  but  no 
less  informed  than  that  which  had  already  appeared  in 
the  periodical  which  he  served  as  critic. 

Before  Millais's  melodramatic  "Speak!  Speak!" 
the  apparition  of  a  young  woman  visiting  her  lover  at 
the  midnight  hour.  Bob  sighed:  "Truly  British  art,  a 
touching  anecdote — poetry  for  the  middle  class." 

The  comment  particularly  amused  me,  for  a  few 
days  before  I  had  passed  an  interesting  afternoon  in  the 
company  of  Sir  Henry  Tate,  in  his  house  at  Park  Hill, 
Streatham  Common,  where  were  gathered  the  pictures 
of  the  collection  which  he  had  presented  to  the  nation, 
awaiting  the  erection  of  the  gallery  where  they,  in  com- 
pany with  the  works  of  the  Chantrey  collection,  are 
now  to  be  seen.    The  generous  donor  had  explained  to 


466       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

me  his  simple  incentive  for  making  this  gift  to  the  na- 
tion, as  a  desire  to  provide  for  the  EngHsh  middle  class 
a  collection  of  contemporary  art,  such  as  the  Luxem- 
bourg secured  for  the  French. 

Naturally  the  "middle  class"  in  England  embraces 
a  larger  number  than  the  phrase  appears  to  limit  to  an 
American,  and  the  appeal  of  the  works  in  the  Tate  col- 
lection, like  those  of  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibition,  is 
sufficiently  broad,  while  the  view  of  these  last  galleries 
crowded  by  an  interested  throng  during  a  long  period 
of  exhibition  is  a  spectacle  grateful  to  one  accustomed 
to  the  limited  attendance  of  our  exhibitions  in  New 
York.  It  was  less  before  the  pictures  possessing  these 
qualities  of  popular  success  that  we  lingered  during 
our  visits;  but,  in  other  works,  we  found  much  that 
was  interesting.  One  of  these,  a  spirited  and  well- 
painted  picture  had,  in  addition  to  these  qualities,  a 
personal  interest.  It  was  one  of  the  contributions  to 
the  exhibition  painted  by  our  old  friend — the  votary  of 
the  wild  West — Arthur  Lemon,  and  depicted  the  escape 
of  an  ancient  Briton  from  a  party  of  his  enemies.  His 
horse  has  swum  a  river  and  with  frantic  effort  climbs 
the  nearer  bank,  his  rider  crouching  low  upon  his  back 
to  avoid  the  arrows  of  his  pursuers,  hot  upon  his  trail. 
The  artist  had  persuaded  Bob  to  pose  for  the  principal 
figure,  his  type  answering  admirably  for  its  character, 
and  the  result  was  a  quite  recognizable  portrait  of  our 
friend.  The  catalogue  gave  its  title  as  "Hard  Pressed," 
but  in  a  restricted  circle  it  was  known  as  "The  Escape 
from  Liverpool,"  in  allusion  to  an  incident  of  Bob's 
career. 

Through  the  influence  of  friends,  Bob  had  been  in- 


A  LINK   BROKEN  467 

duced  to  accept  a  professorship  of  art  in  the  University 
College  at  Liverpool,  a  place  for  which,  in  many  ways, 
he  was  admirably  fitted.  I  have  never  heard  the  story 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  University  collegians, 
which  might  be  interesting,  but  Bob's  version  bordered 
on  the  pathetic.  "I  thought  I  might  hit  it  off,"  said  he, 
"when  I  thought  of  all  that  my  experience  would  count 
for  with  a  class  of  students  really  interested,  and  shut 
up  in  a  big  commercial  town,  without  knowledge  of  all 
that  I  have  seen.  I  knew  it  would  be  principally  lect- 
ures, for  nothing  like  the  talks  Duran  used  to  give  us, 
prompted  by  work  actually  in  progress,  was  proposed. 
But  what  I  found  was  that,  in  addition  to  my  definite 
work  in  the  college,  I  was  expected  to  wear  a  high  hat 
and  a  carnation  in  my  buttonhole,  and  talk  mild  gossip 
about  Botticelli,  Burne- Jones  and  Frith — actually 
Frith — at  garden-parties  and  afternoon  teas.  And  then 
there  were  a  lot  of  pedagogues — duff'ers  who  talked 
about  'schools,'  and  attributions  to  this  and  that  master 
— and  queried  about  dates,  and  the  cinque-cento,  and 
that  rot — and  their  wives,  who  wished  to  uplift  the 
working  classes  by  means  of  art,  dear  good  ladies,  of 
course,  but — well,  I  held  out  as  long  as  I  could*  and  then 
I  simply  cut  it,  for  no  human  being  could  have  stood  it 
any  longer."  I  could  get  no  clearer  information  of  the 
actual  work  of  his  course,  the  remembrance  of  garden- 
parties  and  afternoon  teas  overshadowed  the  whole 
experience,  and  so  Bob  had  ceased  his  visits  to  Liver- 
pool and  remained  in  London,  where  his  illuminating 
talk  on  art  had  a  larger,  and  undoubtedly  more  appre- 

*  Mr.  Balfour  fixes  this  period  at  four  years — 1885  to  1889 — a  tribute  to 
my  friend's  steadfastness.     "  Life  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,"  Vol.  I,  p.  104. 


468      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

ciative  audience,  and  where  later,  Lemon's  picture 
fittingly  commemorated  in  allegorical  fashion  this  epi- 
sode of  his  chequered  career. 

As  usual  I  can  give  but  little  semblance  of  reality  to 
the  recital  of  these  last  glimpses  of  my  gifted  friend. 
The  attempt  to  describe  events  from  day  to  day  would 
result  in  a  mingled  catalogue  of  the  National  Gallery 
and  other  art  exhibitions,  and  descriptions  of  long 
stations  at  tables,  in  his  house  or  at  various  restaurants, 
where  the  repasts  were  fittingly  modest  and  the  talks 
copious.  One  such  station  was,  I  remember,  at  the 
Cafe  Solferino,  a  place  typically  French  in  its  faded 
red-and-white  decorations,  which  enjoyed  some  popu- 
larity with  a  certain  society  in  London  for  a  time,  where 
our  dejeuner  was  prolonged  by  talk  until  diners  began 
to  arrive,  when,  still  interested,  we  remained  to  dine 
and  pass  the  evening — a  record  of  some  ten  or  twelve 
hours  during  which  time  the  solids  of  bodily  sustenance 
were  greatly  exceeded  by  those  of  spiritual  refreshment — 
in  a  strictly  literal  sense.  The  words  we  used,  or  rather, 
those  I  listened  to,  during  these  hours,  have  fled,  but 
not  the  memory  of  the  kindly  face,  the  eager  manner, 
nor  the  firm  conviction  that  I  would  not,  at  the  time, 
have  exchanged  the  privilege  I  was  enjoying  at  the 
Cafe  Solferino  for  that  of  participation  in  the  historic 
gatherings  of  the  Mermaid. 

One  other  meeting — that  with  Henley — was  ushered 
in  by  an  absurd  misunderstanding.  There  had  been 
an  occasional  interchange  of  letters  following  our  first 
acquaintance,  but  after  Stevenson's  leaving  England  it 
had  ceased.  "Now  that  Lukin  is  away  I  have  little  to 
write  about,"  was  the  plaint  of  one  of  these  letters,  and, 


A  LINK   BROKEN  469 


in  another  is  a  forecast  of  the  future,  which  sounds 
strangely  in  the  face  of  eventual  occurrence.  "  I  expect 
it  will  end  in  Louis  taking  out  his  papers.  In  which 
case  we  shall  all  follow  suit  and  become  American  citi- 
zens (like  Dion  Boucicault  and  the  Jersey  Lily)  in  a 
body.  God  forbid  the  necessity,  of  course,  but  it  looks 
like  that  a  little.  Anyhow,  I  behold  myself,  with  the 
mind's  eye,  crossing  the  plains  next  year  to  Colorado 
(having  previously  taken  tea  at  Washington  Square 
North)  on  collaboration  bent.  I  want  him  to  collaborate 
in  public  and  make  money  that  way,  but  we've  not 
yet  arranged  the  details." 

I  knew  that  it  was  to  a  Henley  somewhat  removed 
from  sympathy  with  our  lost  "  Lukin,"  that  I  announced 
my  arrival  in  London,  and  my  desire  to  see  him,  but 
his  answering  note  was  thoroughly  cordial.  He  was 
living  outside  of  London,  at  Barnes-on-the-Thames, 
was  not  very  well  and  came  but  seldom  to  the  city. 
We  were,  therefore,  sure  to  find  them  at  home,  the  note 
went  on  to  say;  luncheon  was  served  at  one  and  dinner 
at  seven  where  we  could  always  find  place,  and,  without 
notification  in  advance,  we  must  come  as  soon  as  possi- 
ble and  spend  as  much  of  the  day  as  we  would. 

I  was  prevented  for  three  or  four  days  from  acting 
on  his  invitation,  but  one  morning  we  saw  the  greater 
part  of  the  day  free  before  us  and  so  sent  Henley  a 
telegram  announcing  that  we  projected  coming  imme- 
diately after  luncheon.  It  was  a  fine,  sunshiny  day 
and,  early  in  the  afternoon,  reckless  of  cab  hire,  we 
hailed  a  hansom,  whose  horse  seemed  good  for  the 
seven  or  eight  miles  to  Barnes,  and  started  on  our  way. 
When  we  arrived  before  the  house,  prettily  situated  on 


470      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  river  bank,  some  prescience  prevented  my  paying 
the  cabby  until  we  had  knocked  at  Henley's  door. 
"Not  at  home,"  was  the  disconcerting  announcement 
of  the  trim  maid.  It  appeared  that  early  in  the  morn- 
ing Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henley  had  gone  to  the  city  and 
would  not  return  until  late  in  the  evening.  I  put  a 
final  query,  "  Do  you  happen  to  know  if  Mr.  Henley 
received  a  telegram  this  morning  .?"  "Oh,  yes,  sir,  they 
were  discussing  going  to  London  at  breakfast,  and 
when  the  dispatch  came  Mr.  Henley  said,  'that  settles 
it',  and  they  went  away  soon  after." 

We  regained  our  hansom  and  I  will  forbear  to  dis- 
close to  my  readers  comments  on  British  manners,  that 
may  have  been  indulged  in  on  our  way  cityward.  It 
all  seemed  incomprehensible,  for  the  kindliness  of 
Henley's  note  had  prepared  us  for  a  resumption  of  our 
old  pleasant  relations,  and  cordial  hospitality  had  ever 
been  one  of  his  chief  virtues.  The  chill  of  a  lost  illusion 
seemed  to  penetrate  our  very  spirits  as  we  lingered  over 
our  dinner  at  the  Cafe  Royal,  contrasting  it  with  the 
very  different  scene  in  which  we  had  hoped  to  figure, 
and  finally  we  reached  our  hotel  about  nine  o'clock. 
I  was  greeted  by  the  clerk. 

"Telegram  here  for  you,  sir,  came  this  morning." 
I  tore  it  open,  and  read:  "Called  to  London  unexpect- 
edly. Meet  us  at  Verrey's.  Dinner  seven  sharp. 
Henley." 

To  jump  into  another  hansom  and  speed  the  driver 
to  Verrey's  was  the  work  of  a  very  few  minutes.  With 
our  arrival  there,  at  the  name  of  Henley,  visible  gloom 
seemed  to  dissolve  from  off"  the  persofjnel  of  this  an- 
tique establishment  which,  at  the  time,  was  the  most 


A  LINK   BROKEN  471 

characteristic  of  the  better  class  of  French  restaurants 
in  London.  From  the  chasseur  at  the  door,  by  the 
hands  of  various  waiters,  we  were  conducted  hastily 
and  with  evident  rehef,  on  naming  our  errand,  into  the 
presence  of  Henley  and  his  wife,  seated  in  a  private 
room  over  the  remains  of  what  had  apparently  been 
a  most  elaborate  dinner,  for  the  ordonnance  of  a  diner 
fin  was  a  quality  of  which  the  poet  was  justly  proud. 
Seated  at  the  table,  his  collar  undone,  with  his  tousled 
hair  and  the  gleam  of  his  blue  eyes,  Henley  had  the 
appearance  of  a  genial  ogre,  smacking  his  lips  after  a 
toothsome  morsel  of  fairy  prince.  As  the  door  opened, 
apologetically,  and  I  appeared,  all  explanations  were 
cut  short  by  the  roar  which  he  emitted,  and  for  some 
seconds  I  stood  there,  listening  to  a  torrent  of  words,  in 
which  my  character,  my  person,  my  native  land,  and 
some  shrewd  prophecies  of  my  future  were  volubly  and 
whimsically  intermingled.  Explanations  of  our  ab- 
sence from  our  hotel  since  morning  were  finally  accepted 
though  our  final  pardon  for  having  lost  a  dinner,  upon 
whose  merits  Henley  touched  in  passing,  was  only 
granted  in  the  end,  by  the  promise  to  pass  the  next  day 
with  them  at  their  house. 

At  this  period  Henley  enjoyed  considerable  influence 
in  London,  at  least  with  a  number  of  the  younger  men. 
He  had  eminent  qualities  for  leadership,  an  unhesitat- 
ing certainty  of  conviction,  an  implacable  honesty  of 
judgment,  coupled  with  a  high  ideal  of  letters;  and, 
best  of  all,  a  stimulating  generosity  of  appreciation  for 
work  of  promise.  London,  to  my  superficial  view,  has 
always  appeared  to  be  divided  in  its  literary  and  artistic 
sympathies  into  at  least  as  many  parochial  divisions  as 


472       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

its  vast  territory  is  municipally  subdivided.  Conse- 
quently when  one  frequents  a  certain  set  of  men,  rela- 
tions with  all  others  appear  to  be  debarred.  With  one 
such  group  at  least,  whose  voice  found  larger  issue  in  the 
publications  of  the  time,  Henley  held  a  high  position, 
if  indeed  he  might  not  be  counted  the  leader. 

Whether  his  generosity  of  appreciation  extended, 
among  the  living,  to  those  who  were  clearly  his  supe- 
riors in  influence,  or  whose  qualities  might  be  weighed 
in  the  balance  with  his  own,  is  more  open  to  question. 
It  was  virtually  impossible  to  temperately  disagree 
with  him;  argument  in  his  hands  was  a  bludgeon  to 
silence  the  opponent  who,  when  rendered  mute  by  such 
methods,  was  apt  to  be  cherished  as  one  won  over  to 
a  righteous  cause.  To  this  I  attribute  the  apparent 
domination  which  at  one  time  he  exercised  over  Steven- 
son, who,  in  another  way,  was  equally  tenacious  of  be- 
liefs which,  when  the  tie  of  constant  association  was 
severed,  took  their  unimpeded  course,  and  before  the 
end  of  his  life  had  carried  him  far  beyond  the  influence 
— and  regretfully  beyond  the  sympathy — of  Henley. 

Under  his  own  roof  at  the  time  of  this  visit,  silenced 
by  the  recent  death  of  Louis,  and  perhaps  somewhat 
abashed  by  my  loyalty,  there  was  little  premonition  of 
the  discordant  utterance,  provoked  by  the  publication 
of  the  "Letters"  and  by  Graham  Balfour's  biography, 
whose  testimony  confirmed  for  Stevenson  so  high  a 
position  in  the  world  of  letters  that  the  defalcation  of 
Henley's  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  man,  and  his  renun- 
ciation of  faith  in  the  artist,  created  only  a  nine  days' 
wonder,  and  can  now  be  mercifully  forgotten.  This 
much   must  also  be  remembered  that  Henley  at  the 


A  LINK   BROKEN  473 

time  was  a  stricken  man,  wounded  nigh  to  death  in  his 
dearest  affections  by  the  loss  of  an  only  child,  and 
blighted  by  physical  suffering  that  from  his  young  man- 
hood had  relentlessly  pursued  him,  crippling  his  body 
and,  perhaps,  distorting  his  mind.  At  the  most,  in  his 
talk  with  me  that  day  he  expressed  a  gruff,  but  half- 
humorous  depreciation  of  what  he  called  "Yankee 
enthusiasm."  To  this  he  attributed  a  vein  of  self-con- 
sciousness which  he  claimed  to  discover  in  Stevenson's 
later  work.  "We" — the  Yankees — "had  taught  him  to 
take  himself  too  seriously,  had  given  him  too  great  an 
audience  and  tempted  him  to  side  with  conventional 
belief  in  order  to  retain  it."  I  could  only  reply  that  if 
Louis  had  given  himself  up  to  "preaching" — the  word 
was  Henley's — the  "Christmas  Sermon"  and  "  Pul- 
vis  et  Umbra"  were  hardly  the  discourses  of  a  popular 
occupant  of  a  fashionable  pulpit;  and  of  other  of  his 
writings,  the  prayers  which  had  been  eagerly  appro- 
priated by  sectarians  with  rejoicing  at  his  return  to  the 
doctrinal  fold — he  knew,  as  well  as  I,  that  some  of  those 
who  were  the  most  convinced  of  his  conversion  to  their 
tenets,  would  have  been  the  most  surprised  could  they 
have  held  a  half-hour's  converse  with  him  on  the  basis 
of  any  narrow — of  almost  any  orthodox — belief.  To 
me  there  never  has  appeared  the  slightest  inconsistency, 
in  any  of  these  utterances,  of  the  later  life  of  the  man 
who  amended  Fleeming  Jenkin's  dictum  that  "we  are 
not  here  to  be  happy,  but  to  be  good,"  by,  "not  to  be 
happy,  but  to  try  and  be  good,"  in  comparison  with  any 
act  or  utterance  of  his  earlier  days.  Henley  still  held 
out  that  there  had  been  a  change,  that  the  freedom  of 
his  earlier  views  had  been  fettered,  and  that  the  Louis 


474      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

we  had  known  in  our  youth  was  other  than  he,  who  (to 
him)  had  become  as  remote  as  was  his  grave  in  Samoa. 
Our  talk  became  painful  and  Henley  ended  it  with  a 
last  word  in  a  tone  of  regret  through  which  transpired 
a  vague  jealousy  that  he  should  have  been  less  favoured 
than  I.  "You  had  the  best,  and  only  the  best  of  Louis. 
You  knew  him  at  a  time  when  he  most  enjoyed  life,  a  life 
of  which  he  talked  to  me  when  I  was  lying  ill  in  Edin- 
burgh. He  was  always  happy  in  France,  and  when  I 
saw  you  meet  together  in  my  room  in  the  Hotel  Jacob, 
you  met  on  the  footing  of  youth.  So  it  is  in  all  the  let- 
ters Colvin  has  printed  and,  somehow,  so  it  is  with  you 
to-day,  and  apparently  to  the  end  you  retained  all  this." 
On  other  subjects  we  were  more  agreed.  Of  Bob  he 
had  the  highest  opinion,  and  even  seemed  disposed  to 
rank  his  gifts  above  those  of  Louis,  though  this  was  a 
comparison  which  I  evaded  as  speedily  as  I  could.  He 
deplored  with  vigorous  language  his  lack  of  ambition 
exclaiming,  "  Confound  him,  if  the  beggar  would  only 
work,"  and  first  praised  the  merit  of  the  Velasquez, 
of  which  Bob  had  only  shown  me  the  proofs  of  the 
photogravures,  made  for  the  first  quarto-edition,  speak- 
ing so  slightingly  of  the  text  as  to  make  me  think  his 
work  merely  expository  of  the  plates.  "Yes,"  Henley 
repeated,  "  if  the  beggar  would  only  work  or  was  the 
least  ambitious";  and  then,  with  his  most  dogmatic 
air  (which  absurdly  enough,  such  was  the  force  of  the 
man,  carried  temporary  conviction),  and  with  passing 
reference  to  a  prominent  feature  of  my  face,  he  added : 
"Why,  Low,  if  Bob  only  had  your  nose,  instead  of  his 
little  lady-like  excrescence,  he  would  be  the  greatest  man 
in  England." 


A  LINK   BROKEN  475 

We  sat  upon  a  balcony  of  his  house  overlooking  the 
river  a  good  portion  of  the  afternoon,  I  no  more  than 
comfortable  in  the  dubious  warmth  of  the  clouded  sun, 
clad  in  a  light  overcoat;  Henley,  comparing  the  heat 
to  the  nether  regions,  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  his 
great  chest  bared  to  the  breeze,  and  there  he  held  forth, 
discoursing  on  many  subjects,  often  cynically  enough, 
but  with  a  latent  kindness  in  his  eyes  that  was  a  con- 
stant reminder  that  his  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite. 
I  thought  of  Landor  who  may  thus  have  sat  on  a  bal- 
cony at  Fiesole,  overlooking  Florence,  and  barked  his 
messao-e  to  a  world  that  he  could  not  control.  At  din- 
ner  we  were  joined  by  other  friends  of  Henley,  of  one 
of  whom  a  chance  acquaintance  of  that  night  would 
beg  that  he  may  prolong  the  "Golden  Age" — whenever 
the  "frivolous  mercantile  concerns"  of  the  Bank  of 
England  permit,  and  the  talk  became  more  general. 
One  characteristic  word  of  Henley's  survives  in  my 
memory.  We  were  speaking  of  the  ill-starred  Oscar 
Wilde,  and  I  asked  our  host  if  his  reputation  as  a 
brilliant  talker  was  well  founded.  "Clever.?"  Henley 
ejaculated,  "I  should  say  he  was.  Seated  where  you 
are  he  has  held  this  table  against  me^  more  than  once." 

I  would  not  leave  my  reader  with  the  impression  that 
this  high  opinion  of  his  own  powers  was  simple  self- 
sufficiency.  In  addition  to  his  undisputed  talent  many 
circumstances  of  his  career  had  lent  him  authority  and, 
though  his  kingdom  was  small  and  its  population 
changeable  by  frequent  emigration,  a  certain  propor- 
tion of  his  subjects  were  loyal,  and  these  the  Master 
of  his  fate,  the  Captain  of  his  soul,  ruled  like  a  des- 
potic— but  benevolent — monarch. 


XXXIX 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS 

" 'T  X  THEN  do  you  fellows  paint?"  asked  one, 
Y  ^  who  in  Rome  for  the  past  forty  years  has 
enjoyed  the  tranquilUty  necessary  to  ac- 
compHsh  much  and  notable  work;  "whenever  I  come 
over  here  you  are  busy  on  juries  for  an  exhibition,  or 
forwarding  some  scheme  to  enable  other  fellows  to 
paint."  This  is  unfortunately  true  of  many  men  who 
have  no  stronger  desire  than  to  sit  quietly  in  their 
studios  and  work;  but  of  those  who  escape  this 
vicarious  service,  Theodore  Robinson  was  a  shining 
example.  He  rightfully  felt  that  his  little  physical 
strength  should  be  consecrated  'to  his  personal  eflPort, 
and  though  at  times  he  served,  cheerfully  enough,  on 
the  jury  of  the  Society  of  American  Artists,  he  flitted 
between  this  country  and  France,  his  chief  activity 
bent  to  his  own  production.  So  quietly  did  he  come 
and  go,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  his  work,  that,  except 
to  his  intimates,  he  seemed  less  like  a  sentient  being 
than  a  name;  a  name  which,  at  every  recurrent  ex- 
hibition, was  attached  to  works  singularly  personal, 
fresh  and  attractive.  This  freedom  from  controlling 
circumstance  enabled  him  to  see  much  of  his  few 
friends  and  to  keep  between  us,  to  the  last,  all  of  the 
easy  intimacies  of  our  student  days  which,  claimed  by 
other  duties,  I  might  have  found  more  difficult  to  re- 
tain.    Accustomed   to   his    coming    unannounced    and 

476 


Theodore  Robinson 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS  477 

departing  without  warning,  I  had  thought  nothing  of 
his  not  appearing  at  our  house  for  a  week  or  ten  days 
when,  on  the  afternoon  of  April  2,  1896,  a  messenger 
summoned  me  from  my  work  with  the  news  of  his 
sudden  death.  A  friend,  who  was  also  his  physician, 
had  seen  him  in  the  morning,  Robinson  protesting 
against  his  ministrations  that  he  was  simply  suffering 
from  a  mild  attack  of  the  asthma  to  which  he  was  sub- 
ject, a  diagnosis  in  which  the  physician  concurred — 
and  half  an  hour  after  he  had  expired,  as  a  candle, 
burning  brightly  down  to  its  socket,  flickers  and  goes 
out.  A  delicate,  sensitive  artist,  receptive  to  the  beauty 
of  atmosphere  and  limpid  play  of  light  over  the  face  of 
nature,  he  had  no  greater  preoccupation,  in  his  last 
years,  than  to  find  in  the  land  of  his  birth  a  country  side 
that  was  as  inspiring  to  his  work  as  his  well-loved  Valley 
of  the  Seine.  Some  strain  of  Puritan  conscience,  a  de- 
sire to  identify  himself  with  his  native  land,  was  his  im- 
pelling motive  and  by  this  strain,  by  evident  atavism, 
he  was  brought  to  return  to  his  birthplace,  to  the  hills 
of  Vermont,  from  whence  he  had  been  taken  in  his 
infancy,  and  there  had  found  his  ideal  country.  The 
last  time  we  spoke  together  he  was  planning,  after  a 
first  summer's  experience,  to  return  there  and  looking 
forward  to  work  that  should  be  filled  with  the  content- 
ment of  an  attained  desire,  when  it  was  otherwise 
ordered. 

Naturally,  the  myriad  occupations  of  the  busy  man 
in  New  York  had  limited  the  occasions  on  which  I  met 
Saint-Gaudens  during  these  years.  In  the  important 
position  to  which  he  had  attained  his  hours  of  leisure 
were  even  fewer  than  mine,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  remem- 


478      A  CHRONICLE  OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


ber  now,  there  was  never  a  moment  during  these  busiest 
hours  of  his  Hfe  when  at  the  call  of  a  friend,  especially 
if  the  service  demanded  was  his  assistance  in  solving 
some  knotty  problem  of  art,  he  would  not  leave  his 
work  and  answer  the  appeal.  This  I  have  known  him 
to  do  for  students  struggling  with  a  first  work  as  con- 
scientiously and  almost  as  cheerfully  as  for  an  intimate 
friend.  These  indeed  knew  with  what  unquenchable 
enthusiasm  he  would  enter  into  their  artistic  projects, 
with  what  fraternal  interest  he  would  bend  his  mind  to 
help  them  with  sapient  counsel;  and  knew,  above  all, 
with  what  unswerving  frankness  he  would  destroy  any 
lingering  doubt,  if  they  rightly  suspected  that  their 
work  had  gone  wrong. 

An  instance  incidental  to  my  own  work  will  best 
explain  the  helpful  quality  of  his  criticism.  I  had  nearly 
finished  a  decorative  panel,  one  of  a  series  designed  for 
a  room  in  the  Louis  XV  style.  After  the  engaging 
manner  of  this  period,  my  composition  comprised  two 
young  people  in  the  costume  of  the  time;  a  young 
woman,  a  sheet  of  music  held  in  her  hands,  reclining, 
partly  supported  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and  at  her 
side  a  young  gallant  playing  the  flute,  his  head  thrown 
back  as  he  steals  a  furtive  glance  at  the  music — or  the 
damsel. 

All  had  gone  fairly  well  with  the  exception  of  the 
head  of  the  young  man,  and  there  I  encountered  a 
subtle  difficulty,  which  in  vain  I  essayed  to  overcome. 
It  did  not  appear  to  be  a  fault  of  drawing,  colour,  or, 
so  far  as  I  could  discover,  of  expression;  but  never- 
theless, the  head  was  wrong  in  some  way  which  re- 
painting it  three  or  four  times,  and  puzzling  my  brain 


THE   CURTAIN   FALLS  479 

until  it  was  fairly  addled,  did  not  remedy.  In  this 
juncture  I  sent  forth  a  cry  of  distress  to  Saint-Gaudens, 
who  hastened  to  the  rescue.  I  explained  my  difficulty, 
whose  existence  he  cheerfully  confirmed,  and  then  we 
sat  before  my  canvas  and  pondered.  "Is  the  head 
badly  drawn,  is  it  out  of  construction,  out  of  plane  in 
the  picture  .?"  To  these  queries  he  returned  a  negative. 
At  last,  after  some  little  time,  he  said:  "I  think  I  have 
it;  your  head  is  not  Louts  quinze,  no,  it's  not  a  question 
of  type,  that  is  right  enough,  but  of  expression.  Don't 
you  remember  how  they  were  not  only  not  serious  in  all 
the  art  of  the  time,  but  they  were  knowing;  that  is,  they 
always  appear  to  be  aware  that  they  are  not  real  milk- 
maids and  shepherdesses,  but  are  masquerading." 
"  But  that  is  exactly  what  I  have  tried  for,"  I  expostu- 
lated, "that  is  the  reason  why  I  have  thrown  my 
youth's  eyes  up  in  a  fine  frenzy,  and  exaggerated  the 
sentimentality  of  his  look."  "Exactly,  you  have  made 
him  romantic;  now  the  Renaissance  could  be  romantic, 
at  times  as  romantic  as  Delacroix  was  later;  but  the 
Louis  quinze,  never.  Try  lowering  his  eyelids  so  that 
he  looks  through  them,  slyly,  at  the  lady;  all  Louis 
quinze  art  is  un  peu  polisson,  and  see  if  that  won't 
doit." 

No  sooner  said  than  done,  a  few  minutes'  work 
effected  the  change  and  presto!   the  panel  was  saved. 

Criticism  as  helpful  and  intelligent  as  this  an  artist 
rarely  receives  from  a  comrade,  so  engrossed  do  we 
become  with  our  own  personal  point  of  view,  and  it 
also  is  somewhat  curious  that  of  those  to  whom  my 
gratitude  for  such  service  is  chiefly  due,  I  fancy  that  I 
could  count  them  on  the  fingers  of  my  two  hands,  the 


480       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


most  inspiring,   salutory  and   catholic  were   sculptors, 
Gaudez  and  Saint-Gaudens. 

Saint-Gaudens  was  as  solicitous  and  receptive  of 
criticism  as  he  was  liberal  in  the  consideration  of  others' 
work.  Some  of  us  fancied  that  he  was  too  receptive 
and  learned  to  forbear  from  suggesting  changes  in  his 
work;  for,  otherwise,  a  tentative  suggestion  might  be 
enlarged  upon,  by  his  sensitive  desire  to  essay  every 
possible  modification  of  his  effort,  and  the  work  of 
weeks  would  be  destroyed  before  the  horrified  eyes  of 
a  friend,  before  a  sober  second  thought  could  con- 
firm or  possibly  condemn,  to  the  critic's  mind,  the 
suggested  change.  With  methods  of  work  like  this, 
every  one  of  his  numerous  and  varied  productions  may 
be  said  to  represent  many  times  the  actual  expenditure 
of  time  and  effort  that  the  definite  work  demanded,  and 
each  statue  or  relief  was  in  the  truest  sense  a  survival 
of  the  fittest. 

Sculpture  produced  under  these  conditions  demands 
expenditure  of  more  than  time  and  effort,  and  I  listened 
without  surprise  when  Saint-Gaudens  gave,  among  the 
reasons  for  his  return  to  Paris,  in  the  autumn  of  1897, 
that  of  greater  economy  of  production  than  was  possi- 
ble in  New  York,  and  confessed  that,  despite  his  con- 
stant employment  and  the  generous  retribution  of  his 
work  in  the  sixteen  years  that  had  elapsed  since  his  re- 
turn from  Europe,  his  labours  had  brought  him  little 
pecuniary  profit. 

There  were  other  reasons  as  well.  His  position  here 
was  not  altogether  exempt  from  the  "splendid  isolation 
of  genius";  for,  be  it  said,  without  depreciation  of 
others  among  his  contemporaries,  painters  as  well  as 


THE   CURTAIN   FALLS  481 

sculptors,  his  is  the  first  instance  of  one  of  our  artists 
whose  active  professional  life  has  been  passed  at  home, 
and  the  merit  of  whose  work  is  directly  based  upon  our 
national  life,  who  has  won  world-wide  fame. 

His  modesty  would  not  have  acknowledged  this;  but, 
in  the  three  years  which  he  passed  abroad,  critical  opin- 
ion in  Europe  accepted  him  as  a  master,  and  France  be- 
stowed upon  him  the  highest  honours  at  her  disposition. 

Perhaps  the  strongest  impelling  motive  for  his  de- 
parture at  the  time  was  an  intuitive  desire  to  affront 
a  tribunal  of  different,  if  not  higher,  standards  than 
those  of  his  own  formulation,  and  those  to  which  he 
most  frequently  appealed  among  his  comrades  at  home, 
for  he  was  of  the  generation  and  training  that  owes  so 
much  to  France,  men  who,  to  the  end  of  their  days, 
must  yield  her  homage  as  to  their  alma  mater. 

I  cannot  better  describe  the  result  of  this  return  to 
Paris  than  in  transcribing  one  of  his  letters,  written  in 
a  careless  and  familiar  vein,  that  gives  it  autobiographi- 
cal value,  in  presenting  a  truthfully  self-drawn  portrait 
of  the  man. 

"3  his^  RUE  DE  Bagneux,  Paris, 

^^  September  2,  1898. 
"Dear  old  Fellow: 

"I  received  your  letter  yesterday  to  my  great  and 
joyous  surprise;  surprise  as  great  as  you  will  experi- 
ence on  receiving  this  prompt  response,  but  absence 
from  home  makes  frequent  correspondence  witJi  home 
a  sine  qua  norij  and  Fridays  are  the  days  I  devote  to 
that  (to  me)  laborious  task.  To-day  is  Friday,  and 
what  is  more  it  is  a  wonderful  American  autumn  dav, 
one  of  those  languorous,  sumptuous,  golden  days  we 


482      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 


have  at  home;  and  it  recalls  the  other  side  so  much 
that  this  business  of  writing  has  turned  into  an  orgy  of 
correspondence  with  old  friends.  With  the  exception 
of  a  week  of  real  New  York  heat  this  summer  has  been 
glorious,  and  I  have  revelled  in  it,  after  a  winter  dark 
and  miserable  beyond  description.  It  rained  steadily 
for  eight  months,  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  am  made  of  stiffer  and  better  stuff  than  I  thought,  to 
have  held  out  here  through  it  all.  I  have  been  miser- 
ably blue  and  homesick  in  the  beginning  of  my  stay 
here;  beyond  reason,  in  fact,  I  found  so  much  that  I 
disliked  intensely  which  I  expected  to  like  immensely, 
that  I  plunged  into  work  moodily  and  with  set  teeth. 
The  only  relief  was  at  the  end  of  the  day  emerging 
from  the  streets  to  the  river,  the  quays,  and  across  the 
bridges;  rain  or  shine  it  was  always  inspiring  and  a 
contrast  to  dark  thoughts;  the  big  open  sky  with  the 
great  effects  of  clouds. 

"And  now  'winter  is  made  glorious  summer  (I  haven't 
Shakespeare  by  me  to  quote  rightly)  and  the  world 
seems  different.'  But,  '  oyt  nest  jamais  content'  It's  the 
fine  weather  now  that  makes  me  want  to  go  back,  it 
recalls  America  so  vividly. 

"This  coming  here  has  been  a  great  experience,  sur- 
prising in  many  respects,  one  thing  being  how  much  of 
an  American  I  find  I  am.  I  always  thought  I  was  a 
kind  of  cosmopolitan,  gelatinous  fish;  pas  dii  tout;  I  be- 
long in  America,  that  is  my  home,  that  is  where  I  want 
to  be  and  remain;  elevated  railway  dropping  oil  and 
ashes  on  the  idiots  below,  cable  cars,  telegraph  poles, 
sky-line  and  all  have  become  dear  to  me,  to  say  nothing 
of  things  many,  many  more  times  attractive;  friends, 


THE   CURTAIN  FALLS  483 


the  scenery,  the  smell  of  the  earth,  and  the  days  like 
to-day;  the  peculiar  smell  of  America,  just  as  peculiar 
as  the  smell  of  Italy  or  France. 

"Another  thing  (I'm  rattling  on  about  myself,  but  I 
know  it  will  interest  you)  is  the  view  I  now  have  of  my 
work.  Up  to  my  visit  here  I  felt  as  if  I  was  working  in 
a  fog,  I  knew  not  'where  I  was  at.'  That  is  all  dis- 
pelled, and  now  I  see  my  ground  clearly;  I  feel  myself 
well  planted  and  know  where  to  strike.  A  strange 
feeling  of  cockiness  and  confidence  that  I  never  have 
felt,  and  which  (oh, irony!)  may  mean  that  I  am  losing 
ground.  And  a  respect  for  what  we  are  doing  at  home, 
too,  a  great  respect;  in  fact,  I  shall  return  a  burning 
hot-headed  patriot.  What  a  place  this  is  over  here, 
though!  Seductive  as  a  beautiful  woman  with  her 
smiles;  I  suppose  that  when  I  get  back  I  will  want  to 
return  here  again;  'on  nest  jamais  content,'  as  I  have 
previously  remarked. 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  a  trip  to  Holland  and  Bel- 
gium. Haarlem  and  Amsterdam  remind  me  start- 
lingly  of  many  of  the  habits  and  customs  of  the  New 
York  of  my  boyhood;  an  attractive  lot  of  people,  too. 
A  trip  to  England  also  made  a  formidable  impression, 
favourable,  on  me,  but  you  know  all  about  that  coun- 
try. I  didn't  and  I'm  looking  forward  to  another  visit 
there  and  to  Scotland  next  month;  when  I  go  to  Edin- 
boro',  to  see  about  the  memorial  to  Stevenson  which  I 
have  been  asked  to  do. 

"  I  am  pegging  away  at  the  Sherman.  If  I  am  to  be- 
lieve what  has  been  said  to  me,  and  of  me  to  others, 
about  my  work  at  the  Salon,  and  the  articles  in  the 
papers,  my  stuff  was  liked.     Perhaps  that's  the  reason 


484      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

I've  been  so  cocky.  There's  an  article  in  the  Gazette 
des  Beaux-Arts  for  August  about  my  things  that  will 
give  you  the  keynote  of  the  critics  and  another  in  ''Art 
et  De'^coratioriy"  the  swell  publication  here,  they  tell  me, 
and  then  there's  a  lot  of  other  stuff  in  other  papers. 

"Garnier  *  is  still  my  dear  old  friend  of  yore,  the  same 
wit,  the  same  charming  simple  way  of  looking  at  things. 
I  see  little  of  him,  however,  as  he  now  lives  in  a  little 
nest  not  far  from  Chartres.  We  went  to  Italy  together, 
though;  and  it  was  a  great  treat  to  have  him  along,  to 
find  ourselves  walking  along  the  roads  of  the  South  of 
France,  cane  in  hand,  precisely  as  we  did  thirty  years 
ago  in  the  Jura.  We  visited  the  village  where  my 
father  was  born,  in  a  glorious  spot  in  the  Pyrenees, 
about  twenty  miles  from  the  frontier  of  Spain.  To  go 
there  was  like  quenching  a  great  thirst,  for  it  had  been 
my  desire  for  twenty  years.  But  Italy,  Italy,  give  me 
Rome.  The  walks  we  took  there  were  like  dreams  of 
Paradise,  and  some  day  you  must  go  there,  too.  I 
mean  Rome,  Naples,  and  the  road  on  the  Mediterra- 
nean from  Amalfi  to  Salerno. 

"The  sun  is  going  down,  and  I  must  close  this  letter 
otherwise  I'll  put  you  off  to  finish  it  at  leisure — and  will 
never  find  it  again.  It  has  been  a  pleasure  to  write  to 
you,  and,  whenever  the  spirit  moves,  send  me  another 
letter.  I  think  I  will  stay  here  this  winter  visiting 
Spain  and  Greece,  and  next  fall  end  up  in  America. 
Give  my  love  to  your  wife,  grip  the  paws  of  all  the 
camarades,  and  believe  me, 

"Faithfully  your  friend  as  ever, 

"Augustus  Saint-Gaudens." 

*  One  of  our  old  Paris  comrades. 


THE   CURTAIN  FALLS  485 

Other  letters  followed,  as  frank  and  self-revealing 
as  is  this,  each  tempered  by  his  appreciation  of  the 
sterling  qualities  of  the  French,  in  their  sane  outlook 
on  life  and  their  recognition  of  art  as  one  of  its  com- 
ponent parts,  and  each  penetrated  with  a  longing  for 
home  and  interest  in  our  new  conditions,  in  which  he 
and  his  work  bore  so  constructive  a  part. 

Thus  of  a  friend,  to  whom  I  had  given  him  a  letter  of 
introduction,  and  for  a  second  time  had  been  enabled 
to  bring  two  sympathetic  natures  into  communion,  he 
writes:  "He  has  all  the  charming  side  of  the  French 
.  .  .  the  clearness  of  vision,  the  thoroughness  and  con- 
scientiousness of  work,  and  withal  the  power  of  enjoy- 
ing life;  la  joie  de  vivre — which  is  their  one  note  that 
has  not  staled  by  custom  in  the  two  years  I  have-  been 
here.  I  have  grown  to  like  it  here  very  much,  reste  a 
voiTy  how  I  will  like  the  coming  winter  ...  I  propose 
staying  until  after  the  Exposition  (1900)  opens  and  then 
I  shall  go  home  with  a  glad  heart;  for,  after  all,  we  are 
creatures  of  habit  and  twenty  years  habit  of  New  York 
and  New  Yorkers,  cannot  be  broken  by  two  years  of 
alluring  Paris.  The  Esquimaux  hies  back  to  his  ice 
hut  in  the  Arctic  circle;  and  why  shouldn't  I  ?  to  the 
place  where  I  have  such  bully  friends  who  are  bully 
men — though  they  have  done  well  by  me  here,  as  you 
know." 

Something  of  this  double  loyalty  to  two  countries,  a 
willingness  to  play  a  merely  passive  part  but  to  profit 
by  long  established  conditions  and  bask  in  the  sunshine 
of  the  afternoon  of  art  to  mitigate  the  chill  of  its  early 
morning  on  these  shores,  led  me  about  this  time  to 
project   a    protracted    sojourn    in    Europe.      My   visits 


486      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

there  since  1886  had  been  of  short  duration;  and,  in 
each  instance,  a  mere  transference  of  the  activities  of 
work  from  one  side  of  the  ocean  to  the  other.  This 
visit  was  to  be  different,  a  leisurely  progress  through 
Italy,  from  Naples  to  the  North,  and  in  Paris  a  reunion 
with  Saint-Gaudens,  Gaudez  and  others  of  my  friends, 
who  fortunately  may  not  figure  here  since,  man  pro- 
posing and  hope  springing  eternal,  other  projected 
meetings  may  still  take  place. 

Of  all  this  holiday  proposition  no  one  feature  pos- 
sessed such  promise  of  pleasure,  as  a  plan  to  estab- 
lish ourselves  in  some  quiet  country  place  in  France, 
and  there  lure  Bob  Stevenson  to  share  with  us  some 
semblance  of  the  life  of  our  youth  at  Fontainebleau. 
He  was  not  consulted  in  the  matter;  correspondence 
with  him  having  been  abandoned  by  this  time  as  a 
custom  impossible  to  maintain,  but  I  knew  by  past  ex- 
perience that  I  had  only  to  come  upon  him  unawares 
to  resume  our  relation  at  the  precise  point  of  its  last  in- 
terruption. I  knew  also  that  it  was  his  habit  to  pass  a 
portion  of  the  summer  away  from  London  with  his 
little  family,  and  that  often  this  holiday  took  them  to 
France.  Consequently  the  choice  of  the  scene  of  this 
revival  and  prolongation  of  youth  was  to  be  theirs, 
though  we  secretly  hoped  that  some  of  the  villages 
around  Fontainebleau  would  be  chosen. 

So  far  had  man  proposed,  when  there  was  flashed 
across  the  ocean  the  news  of  the  death  of  Robert  Alan 
Mowbray  Stevenson,  in  London,  i8th  April,  1900,  in 
his  fifty-fourth  year.  This  was  shortly  followed  by  a 
letter,  from  his  wife  to  mine,  in  which  occurs  this  pas- 
sage:   "Will  you  tell  Mr.  Low  that  if  anything  is  to  be 


THE   CURTAIN   FALLS  487 


written  about  Bob  in  America,  it  is  my  great  wish  that 
he  should  do  it.  Nobody  knew  Bob  better  and  there 
were  few  Bob  loved  more  sincerely." 

Here  in  these  pages,  after  many  years,  still  conscious 
of  the  shadow  of  his  loss,  I  have  endeavoured  to  give 
some  picture  of  the  man.  Elusive  and  baffling  as  may 
seem  such  glimpses  as  I  have  given  to  those  who  never 
heard  his  voice,  partial  and  fragmentary  as  will  appear 
the  faces  1  have  shown  of  the  many-faceted  reflections 
of  his  mind  to  those  who  knew  him,  no  word  has  been 
written  without  an  abiding  sense  of  the  usefulness  of 
his  career.  A  just  sense  of  humanity  caused,  long  ago, 
an  epilogue  to  be  added  to  a  famous  fable  of  Jean  de  la 
Fontaine,  in  which  the  dove  intervenes  at  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  dialogue  at  the  point  where  the  author  left 
it,  where  the  ant  informs  the  grasshopper  that,  having 
sang  all  the  summer,  now  that  winter  is  come  she  may 
dance.  The  humane — and  intelligent — dove  thereupon 
offers  the  musician  of  the  fields  "grains  at  her  choice"; 
and  then  proceeds  to  read  the  avaricious  ant  a  much- 
needed  lesson,  concluding: 

Vous  travaillez  a  toute  heure;  elle  chante  dans  les  moissons; 
Ainsi,  tous  nous  remplissons  la  tache  que  Dieu  nous  impose. 

In  the  welter  of  a  great  capital,  amid  the  hum  of 
traffic  and  the  insensate  struggle  of  the  ambitious,  im- 
pelled by  who  knows  what  mysterious  force  that  kept 
him  in  touch  yet  apart  from  every  passion  of  the  age, 
accepting  the  common  lot  and  earning  the  wage  of  self- 
sustenance — and  nothing  more — it  was  my  friend's 
"God  given  task"  to  sing  in  the  harvest  of  art  and 
letters,  that  others  garnered.     If  he  were  less  than  these 


488      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

the  story  of  Mary  and  Martha,  the  parable  of  the 
"HHes  of  the  field,"  have  been  writ  in  vain;  for  his 
counsel  has  cleared  many  a  doubt,  his  appreciation  has 
cheered  many  to  sustained  eflFort,  and,  above  all,  be  it 
remembered,  as  William  Ernest  Henley  has  so  truth- 
fully testified,  his  influence  was,  "ever,  I  may  insist,  an 
influence  for  the  best,  alike  in  morals  and  in  art." 

Again  Fate  had  intervened;  the  best-laid  plans  of  the 
summer  were  impoverished  of  their  crowning  •  riches, 
and  some  tinge  of  sadness  was  ever  present,  as  we 
slowly  made  our  way  through  the  enchanted  land  of 
art  from  Naples  to  Paris,  at  the  thought  that  by  this 
intervention  Bob  was  indeed,  "removed  beyond  the 
touch  of  friendship."  Further  disappointment  awaited 
us  in  Paris,  for  on  our  arrival  there  we  learned  that 
Saint-Gaudens  had  left  but  a  few  days  before  for 
America,  and  alarm  was  added  to  regret,  when  we  knew 
that  he  was  so  seriously  ill  that  he  was  accompanied 
upon  the  voyage  by  a  physician.  More  than  a  year 
before  I  had  known  of  his  serious  illness,  an  aggravated 
case  of  nervous  prostration  out  of  which  he  had  come 
with  a  shudder  of  memory  that  impelled  him  to  write: 
"  I  pity  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  many  whom  I 
looked  upon  before  as  malades  imaginaires." 

The  menace  of  the  trouble  that  had  caused  his 
sudden  departure  was  even  more  grave,  and  was,  in 
fact,  the  premonitory  attack  of  the  malady  against 
which  he  struggled  with  such  high  courage  until  the 
end  came  seven  years  after.  I  may  say  here,  that  our 
first  alarm  was  somewhat  allayed  by  news  that  came 
from  home,  that  surgical  skill  had  apparently  tri- 
umphed, and  that  Saint-Gaudens  was  on  the  high-road 


THE   CURTAIN   FALLS  489 

to  complete  recovery,  the  first  of  the  mocking  hopes 
that  reassured  his  friends,  and  gave  him  temporary 
beUef  that  he  had  vanquished  his  enemy.  Thus  reas- 
sured we  could  turn  to  other  friends,  many  of  w^hom 
the  friendly  capital  harboured. 

I  find  that  in  speaking  of  tv^^o  visits  to  Europe,  in 
1 892- 1 895,  I  have  said  nothing  of  my  early  mentor  and 
steadfast  friend,  Adrien  Gaudez.  This  apparent  neglect 
is  simply  a  case  like  that  of  happy  nations  having  little 
history.  On  each  of  these  visits  we  had  been  much  to- 
gether, and  in  his  house  and  garden  at  Neuilly,  in  com- 
pany with  Madame  Gaudez  and  la  petite  Jdrienne,  we 
had  passed  many  happy  hours.  In  a  modest  way  he 
had  been  exceptionally  fortunate,  the  list  of  his  works 
and  their  retributive  honours  had  grown,  and  in  char- 
acter he  had  remained  the  same  wise  and  witty  friend 
who  looked  on  life  with  approval  and  upon  art  with  a 
catholic  and  sane  appreciation.  We  had  always  kept 
up  an  intermittent  correspondence,  but  at  the  time  of 
this  last  visit  I  was  in  arrears  by  more  than  a  year, 
having  counted  upon  an  earlier  visit  to  Paris  to  enable 
me  to  drop  in  unannounced,  to  take  the  place  which  he 
and  his  were  always  good  enough  to  reserve  for  their 
friends  d'outre-mer. 

When,  following  this  habit  of  sudden  apparition,  I 
entered  his  presence  I  was  again  to  encounter  the  un- 
expected. There  was  no  change  in  the  nature  of  my 
friend,  but  he  whom  I  had  left  so  alert  five  years  before, 
of  whose  continued  physical  well  being  his  last  letter 
had  assured  me,  I  now  found  stretched  upon  a  chaise- 
longue,  prone  on  his  back,  a  victim  of  nephritis.  There 
was  no  one  that  I  have  known  who  seemed  less  likely 


490      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

to  be  physically  incapacitated  than  Gaudez.  To  the 
Bacchus-like  grace  of  his  earlier  years  had  succeeded 
the  full-blooded  sturdiness  of  middle  life,  the  charpente 
that  has  carried  a  number  of  his  compatriots,  brother- 
artists,  beyond  four  score  in  full  vigour  of  life  and  pro- 
duction. 

But  for  nearly  a  year,  as  I  learned  to  my  sorrow,  my 
friend  had  been  unable  to  walk  or  stand,  and  it  was 
indescribably  pathetic  so  see  him  in  the  studio  sur- 
rounded by  his  larger  works,  one  group  only  half  fin- 
ished, while  he,  to  occupy  his  time  and  divert  the  te- 
dium of  inaction  was  reduced  to  model,  on  a  small  stand 
contrived  to  serve  him  as  he  sat  half  reclining,  little 
figurines,  or  sketches  for  works  of  greater  mould  which 
he  bravely  hoped  to  undertake,  "when  he  got  well." 

I  should  not  linger  over  this  last  phase  of  my  friend's 
life,  tormented  as  it  was  by  acute  pain  and  menaced  in 
its  material  fortune, — for  the  security  of  his  modest 
prosperity  had  been  purchased  by  uninterrupted  labour 
and  was  ill-calculated  to  withstand  a  long  and  expen- 
sive illness, — but  for  the  superb  courage,  cheerfulness, 
and  hope  which  sustained  him  to  the  last,  when  fortu- 
nately the  final  blow  came  quickly  and  painlessly. 

Our  stay  in  France  was  lengthened  to  eighteen 
months  and  during  that  time,  whenever  I  was  in  or 
within  reach  of  Paris,  my  visits  were  frequent  to  the 
studio  in  Neuilly  which,  less  gay  than  during  the  light- 
hearted  labours  of  Gaudez,  saw  decreasingly  few  visi- 
tors. Except  for  the  steady  encroachment  of  his 
malady,  which  all  but  him  were  forced  to  acknowledge, 
the  daily  life  there  led  was  in  spirit  little  changed.  The 
spirit  of  a  pagan  philosopher  looking  the  future  full  in 


THE   CURTAIN  FALLS  491 

the  face  with  only  negligent  curiosity  as  to  what  it  held 
in  store,  but  extracting  every  element  of  pleasure  from 
the  immediate  occurrences  of  the  day,  controlled  my 
friend,  and  in  his  presence,  dominated  those  about 
him.  Carried  out  to  his  garden,  surrounded  by  the 
tangle  of  poppies,  larkspur  and  lilies,  reclining  in  the 
sunshine  and  discoursing  with  fine  optimism  of  life  and 
art,  it  was  easy  to  imagine  a  reincarnation  of  Epicurus 
teaching  in  an  earlier  garden  his  doctrine,  devoid  of  the 
debasement  with  which  our  modern  materialism  has 
tarnished  the  fair  fame  of  the  Greek  philosopher. 

Above  all,  returns  to  me  the  memory  of  the  eve  of 
our  departure  home.  A  young  and  enthusiastic  doctor, 
a  pupil  of  Pasteur,  with  a  new  treatment  and  confident 
prognostication,  had  spread  the  hope  of  his  recovery 
beyond  the  limit  of  Gaudez'  own  serene  certitude.  His 
couch  had  been  moved  to  the  side  of  the  dinner  table, 
the  repast  finished  he  had  lighted  his  faithful  pipe  and, 
in  view  of  our  imminent  departure,  he  was  looking  for- 
ward to  the  time  of  our  next  visit. 

"I  will  be  on  my  feet  then,  and  we  must  no  longer 
put  off  our  excursion  to  my  native  Burgundy  at  the 
time  of  the  vintage.  We  have  planned  to  do  this  for 
many  years  and  it  is  an  experience  that  must  be  under- 
taken when  one  is  still  valiant,  for  my  relatives  and 
friends  among  the  vignerons  are  sinners  for  hospitality. 
There  I  will  show  you,  espece  de  vieux  classiqiie,  young 
girls  treading  out  the  grapes  as  they  have  done  since  the 
time  of  Horace,  and  a  life  that  is  so  patriarchal  and 
generous  that  it  subsists  nowhere  to-day  save  in  this 
blessed  province  of  Burgundy."  Later  our  talk  turned 
on  the  survival  of  interest  in  work  outlasting  the  hope 


492      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

of  realization  of  youthful  ambition;  and,  beyond  the 
wreaths  of  smoke,  my  friendly  oracle  spoke  his  final 
message.  "It  is  the  compensation  that  years  bring. 
Many  of  our  projects  of  youth  we  come  to  see  were 
futile,  and  in  their  place  comes  the  desire  to  do  some 
little  thing  well,  not  for  applause  or  reward,  but  for  the 
satisfaction  of  our  proper  conscience.  And  that  brings 
contentment.  Tiens,  take  my  own  case,  I  have  put  by 
most  of  the  dreams  of  my  youth,  but  I  have  a  happy 
family,  a  pleasant  home  here,  and  an  agreeable  little 
box  at  the  seaside  for  the  mid-summer.  I  have  been 
permitted  to  do  my  own  work  in  my  own  way,  with 
sufficient  success  to  promise  continuous  work  for  the 
future.  If  it  were  not  for  these  passing  twinges  of 
pain" — and  for  a  moment  I  could  trace  the  paroxysm, 
which  passing,  his  face  resumed  its  serenity;  and  he 
continued — "I  could  say  that  I  am  absolutely  happy 
and  contented." 

It  was  but  a  few  weeks  after,  following  our  return  to 
America,  that  we  learned  that  in  the  full  tide  of  con- 
tinued hope,  this  gentle  generous  spirit  had  been  taken, 
suddenly  and  painlessly,  from  the  world  which  he  had 
adorned  by  his  presence,  and  from  the  art  of  his  country, 
to  which,  in  the  Nymphe  Echo,  he  has  left  a  master- 
work. 


XL 
RETROSPECT  AND  FORECAST 

FRIENDSHIP  is  a  hardy  perennial  and,  in  the 
sequence  of  the  seasons,  among  the  chequered 
spaces  of  sunHght  and  shadow,  of  sorrow  and 
mirth,  new  blooms  arise  from  the  ashes  of  the  past. 
With  Louis  gone,  the  earth  bereft  of  Bob's  brave  pres- 
ence, witnessing  the  slow  and  torturing  progress  of  the 
gradual  dissolution  of  Gaudez,  and  only  half  reassured 
that  the  days  of  Saint-Gaudens  were  not  numbered, 
the  long-awaited  vacation  in  my  second  patrie  would 
have  been  hopelessly  overshadowed,  but  for  the  pres- 
ence of  other  friends — who,  happily,  survive — and, 
above  all,  had  not  a  closer  intimacy  grown,  by  the  side 
oi  xhese.  fleurs  du  maly  from  a  friendship  which  in  truth 
had  taken  root  some  years  before,  but  which  now  grew 
and  flourished. 

Its  story  may  not  be  told  here — my  story,  indeed,  is 
almost  done — but,  from  a  sorrow  greater  than  ours, 
rose  the  duty  of  sympathy  and  the  bestowal  of  the 
small  measure  of  consolation  that  one  can  bring  to 
others  in  affliction.  To  share  elemental  and  mutual 
helpfulness  over  the  rough  places  of  life  lessens  the 
burden  laid  upon  each  of  us.  The  fortunate  artist  has, 
as  an  added  gift,  moreover,  a  panacea  for  all  ills  in  the 
work  in  which  his  sentient  personality  is  absorbed 
until  he  becomes,  as  it  were,  an  atom  of  the  forces 
of  nature,  whose  gradual  evolution  he  shares  to  some 
extent,  and,  as  the  hours  of  endeavour  follow  one  an- 

493 


494      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

other,  emerges  from  night  to   day,  from  the  chill  of 
winter  to  the  promise  of  spring. 

This  miracle  I  have  seen  oft  repeated  in  life,  as  I 
now  saw  it  come  to  a  flower-bedecked  garden  over- 
looking a  smiling  valley  and  bring  to  those  assembled 
there  peace,  though  not  forgetfulness. 

At  this  point  my  chronicle  has  covered  the  quarter  of 
a  century,  and  though  purposely  I  have  limited  its 
recital  to  the  more  obvious  and  superficial  happenings 
of  these  years  and  have  never  entertained  for  a  moment 
the  thought  of  presenting  a  full  and  faithful  history  of 
the  lives  of  the  men  who  figure  here  during  this  period, 
I  have  found  that  memory  has  yielded  a  greater  store  of 
these  inconsequential  events  than  I  anticipated  at  the 
outset.  Having,  therefore,  long  ago  exceeded  the  origi- 
nal limit  of  my  undertaking,  I  must,  with  this  chapter, 
cease  my  garrulity,  hoping  only  that  I  have  justified  the 
promise  of  my  preface  and  that  my  recital  "is  one 
where  events,  if  not  more  prominent  than  opinions  and 
beliefs,  have,  nevertheless,  the  weight  of  actualities  as 
ballast." 

In  this  harvest  of  my  memories  the  task  of  separating 
the  wheat  from  the  chaff  has  presented  the  chief,  I 
might  say  the  only,  difficulty.  For,  with  each  episode 
that  has  recurrently  risen  from  the  past  others  of  per- 
haps equal  importance,  if  any  of  them  may  be  consid- 
ered important,  have  come  in  their  company.  To  pick 
and  choose  the  incidents,  the  conversations,  the  letters, 
the  theories  advanced  or  the  beliefs  confessed  that  were 
germane  to  my  desire  to  portray  truthfully,  if  partially, 
my  friends,  has  been  difficult.  All  else  has  been  easy: 
for,  writing  currente  calamo,  I  have  sat  like  an  amanu- 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST        495 

ensis  following  the  dictation  of  my  departed  youth, 
listening,  reflectively,  to  the  voice  of  ''le  poete  mort 
jeune,  a  qui  Vhomme  survit." 

The  surviving  man  indeed  fancies  himself  facing 
future  difficulties  when  these  pages  are  given  to  the 
public.  For  those  of  my  comrades  gone,  the  revelation 
of  their  opinions  and  theories,  of  the  speculations  in 
which  we  liberally  indulged,  and  which  as  intimates, 
were  shared  between  us,  may  add  something  to  the 
interest  which  they  in  their  lives  excited.  That  the  sur- 
viving narrator,  in  the  execution  of  his  pious  task — in 
his  desire  to  add  verity  to  his  story  and  to  fill  the  gaps 
in  the  history  of  his  friends — should  be  equally  frank 
concerning  himself,  is  a  more  debatable  question. 

To  him,  so  long  as  Fate  permits,  is  reserved  the 
necessity  of  walking  familiar  streets,  of  pursuing  the 
humdrum  activities  of  daily  life  in  company  with  those 
among  whom  he  has  theretofore  been  inconspicuous, 
to  take  up,  after  an  excursion  along  the  primrose  way 
of  youth,  the  heavier-footed  journey  of  advancing  age, 
in  a  city,  in  a  time,  and  under  a  social  system  which  is 
notably  indifferent,  when  it  is  not  exultantly  irreveren- 
tial,  to  recondite  questions  of  art  and  life,  over  which  he 
has  complacently  lingered.  When  one  has  cheerfully 
accepted  the  conditions  of  life  as  he  has  found  it,  has 
turned  a  new  face  and  new  effort  to  every  demand  born 
of  circumstance,  and  has,  in  a  word,  endeavoured  to 
fulfill  the  duties  of  a  citizen  of  our  great,  if  sometimes 
disconcerting,  republic,  it  surely  is  permissible  to  stop 
a  while,  in  (what  he  would  fain  believe  to  be)  mid-career, 
to  register  memories  which  have  no  pretence  to  be 
memoirs.     Memoirs  by  their  very  nature  are  addressed 


496      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

to  posterity,  while  these  desultory  pages  disclaim  any 
such  dubious  destination,  in  the  hope  of  finding  con- 
temporary favour,  and  are  written  by  one  who  has 
merely  abandoned,  for  a  space,  another  and  more  chosen 
task,  in  order  that  these  brave  lives  that  he  has  known 
might  be  made  somewhat  nearer  and  more  real  to  their 
surviving  fellows. 

Into  this  tissue  of  interwoven  memories,  if  its  texture 
be  not  too  frail,  or  its  pattern  too  diffuse,  I  would  still 
weave  in  clearer  colours,  working,  as  the  artificer  must, 
behind  his  design,  yet  knowing  clearly  the  result  he 
would  achieve  in  his  tapestry,  the  moral  which  runs 
through  its  warp  and  woof — the  moral  of  courage. 

The  men  of  whom  I  have  written  were  loved  of  the 
gods.  No  one  of  them  reached  his  sixtieth  birthday 
and,  as  each  was  cut  down  in  the  zenith  of  his  power,  it 
is  certain  that  had  longer  life  been  granted  him  his 
best  work  would  have  been  increased  in  quantity, 
while  it  is  possible  that  the  ultimate  quality  of  his  pro- 
duction was,  by  this  decree  of  destiny,  denied  expression. 
One  and  all  had  premonitory  warning  of  their  ap- 
proaching end,  yet  faced  this  limited  future,  clear-eyed, 
with  courage  unabashed,  working  till  the  last,  not  from 
a  sense  of  placating  Fate  by  accomplishment  of  duty  or 
with  trembling  haste,  lest  the  day  be  done  ere  the  task 
were  finished,  but  with  the  complete  absorption  and  full 
enjoyment  of  the  artist  steadfastly  creating,  changing 
and  perfecting  his  conception,  as  though  he  had  eter- 
nity before  him. 

With  Louis  Stevenson,  Robinson,  Eaton,  Henley, 
and  in  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life,  Saint-Gaudens, 
the  body  which  encased  this  brave  spirit  was  as  frail  as 


(laudcz  and  la  [ictilc  Adricnnc  in  the  garden — 1892 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST         497 

their  devotion  to  their  work  was  constant,  and  their  con- 
tinued activit}'  followed  its  cheerful  course;  burdened 
by  physical  pain,  when  not  menaced  by  imminent  death. 
Gaudez  suffering  acutely,  his  great  frame  racked,  and  in 
the  intervals  of  relief  "happy  and  contented,"  model- 
ling his  sketches  for  works  he  was  not  to  live  to  achieve; 
Henley  sitting  stoically,  refusing  an  anaesthetic  while  the 
surgeon  plied  his  knife,  clenching  his  teeth  on  his  pipe, 
and  composing,  perchance,  a  "Hospital  Verse";  or 
Homer  Martin,  more  than  half  blind  in  his  last  days, 
yet  by  the  magic  of  his  art  endowing  a  small  square  of 
woven  linen  with  the  luminosity  of  which  nature  had 
imparted  to  him  the  secret,  these  were  courageous  men. 

It  was  of  such  as  these  that  Stevenson  wrote  in  "  JEs 
Triplex" — every  line  of  which  applies  so  truly  to  him- 
self: 

"A  frank  and  somewhat  headlong  carriage,  not 
looking  too  anxiously  before,  not  dallying  in  maudlin 
regret  over  the  past,  stamps  the  man  who  is  well  ar- 
moured for  this  world." 

It  is  to  be  noted,  moreover,  that  but  two  of  these 
men  rose  to  high  honour  and  enjoyed  the  fruits  of  their 
labour  and  the  opportunity  for  consecutive  effort  during 
their  lifetime.  To  the  others  the  world  remained  sim- 
ply tolerant,  when  not  hostile,  and  whatever  posthu- 
mous honour  has  since  covered  their  names  atones  but 
little  for  the  hard  struggle  and  the  necessary  compro- 
mise for  self-sustenance,  which  impeded  the  full  fruition 
of  their  power. 

We  have  little  conception  in  this  country,  nor,  in- 
deed, does  there  exist  in  the  public  mind  anywhere  in 
the  world,  an  adequate  comprehension  of  the  infinite 


498      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

pains,  the  sedulous  hours  of  labour  that  go  to  the  mak- 
ing of  a  work  of  art.  Balzac's  figure  of  "the  miner 
buried  in  a  landslip,"  Flaubert's  reiterated  notation  of 
manuscript  pages  destroyed  for  the  paragraph  he  re- 
tained, Stevenson's  own  practice  for  that  matter,  can  all 
be  paralleled  in  the  production  of  the  painter  and  sculp- 
tor. There  is  no  particular  virtue  in  this  for  the  *'  labour 
we  delight  in  physics  pain";  but,  to  go  through  life  and 
speak  to  deaf  ears,  to  paint  or  model  for  eyes  that  allot, 
at  the  most,  an  indifferent  glance  to  the  consideration  of 
art,  and  still  keep  inviolate  a  high  purpose  and  an  un- 
relenting effort  demands  sustained  courage. 

It  was  such  courage,  upheld  only  by  the  approval 
of  a  minority  of  their  craft,  that  impelled  Corot,  Millet, 
Puvis  de  Chavannes,  and  a  host  of  others  notable  in  the 
long  history  of  art,  to  continued  effort  until  their 
heads  were  whitened,  before  the  clouds  that  had  ob- 
scured their  path  broke  away,  and  a  random  ray  of  the 
sun  which  now  shines  so  refulgently  upon  their  names, 
cheered  the  evening  of  their  lives. 

These  were  the  successful  men  of  art,  but  upon  the 
others — to  those  who  see  the  night  descend  upon  a  day 
of  impeded  labour  and  are  taken  away  before  the  re- 
turning sun  shows  clearly  how  well  their  work  was  done 
— or  upon  even  those  whose  gifts  are  small — the  same 
high  mandate  of  continuous  effort  is  laid. 

For  success  in  the  arts,  concurrent  to  the  life  of  the 
artist,  is  apparently  a  matter  of  circumstance,  except 
where,  as  I  would  willingly  affirm,  the  existence  of  cer- 
tain gifted  beings  is  so  necessary  to  the  world  that  cir- 
cumstance has  long  before  prepared  for  their  advent. 
It  seems  certain  that  had  not  Louis  Stevenson's  frail 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST         499 


life  been  protected  from  his  birth  by  every  safeguard 
that  affection  and  comparative  affluence  could  bring 
to  bear,  he  would,  had  he  escaped  death  in  infancy, 
never  have  known  the  years  of  his  apprenticeship  and 
the  grateful  conditions  of  material  comfort  under  which 
he  was  permitted,  and  encouraged  by  criticism  and 
approbation,  to  perfect  his  effort  and  give  nothing  to  the 
world  that  was  not  his  best. 

Equally  predestinate  seems  the  advent  of  Augustus 
Saint-Gaudens  to  the  time  and  place  of  his  labours, 
though  here  no  material  prosperity  made  easy  the  years 
of  his  apprenticeship,  and  indeed  the  hardships  of  his 
student  days  may  have  counted  against  him  at  the  last. 

For,  perhaps  more  than  any  of  those  whose  natures 
I  have  essayed  to  partially  describe  here,  he  was  essen- 
tially and  wholly  the  artist.  He  knew  no  interest  that 
did  not  contribute  to  his  art,  and,  receptive  to  the  ut- 
most degree  to  the  manifold  influences  of  life  and  of 
nature,  swayed  by  these  emotions  to  the  inner  core  of 
his  being  as  a  true  Celt,  their  vibration  within  him  was 
at  once  transmuted  to  the  music  of  art  under  the  more 
orderly  hand  of  the  Latin. 

Without  thought  of  its  application  to  our  friend,  in 
continuance  of  our  life-long  discussion  of  art  and  the 
artist,  Stevenson  wrote  in  one  of  his  last  letters,  in  re- 
sponse to  some  optimistic  prophecy  of  mine: 

"Well,  it  may  be  there  is  a  good  time  coming:  and  I 
wonder,  when  it  comes,  whether  it  will  be  a  time  of 
little,  exclusive,  one-eyed  rascals,  like  you  and  me,  or 
parties  of  the  old  stamp  who  can  paint  and  fight,  and 
write  and  keep  books  of  double  entry,  and  sculp  and 
scalp.     It  might  be.     You  have  a  lot  of  stuff  in  your 


500      A  CHRONICLE  OF  FRIENDSHIPS 

kettle,  and  a  great  deal  of  it  Celtic,  and  the  Celtic  blood 
makes  a  rare  blend  for  art.  If  it  is  stiffened  up  with 
Latin  blood  you  get  the  French.  However,  that  is  a 
good  starting  point,  and  with  all  the  other  elements  in 
your  crucible,  it  may  come  to  something  great  very  easily." 

This  child  of  the  Celt  and  the  Latin  brought  when 
a  babe  to  this  land,  growing  up  in  close  touch  with  the 
people  of  its  greatest  city,  living  the  life  of  its  streets 
through  his  most  impressionable  age,  at  a  period  when 
from  a  fratricidal  war  uprose  a  united  country,  sharing 
in  purely  intuitive  fashion  its  passions  and  its  hopes 
and,  from  this  immersion  in  the  stormy  waters  of  a 
great  epoch,  laved  of  all  alien  strain,  emerging,  rebap- 
tized,  an  American,  such  was  Saint-Gaudens. 

When  he  returned  to  these  shores,  a  man  of  thirty, 
fresh  from  the  apprenticeship  of  his  art  among  his 
kindred  French,  among  whom  once  more  he  had  be- 
come scarce  distinguishable,  opportunity  awaited  him; 
and,  as  he  grasped  her  hand  his  pulses  tingled,  and 
from  that  moment  to  the  end  of  his  hfe  he  was  utterly 
consecrated  to  the  service  of  his  country  as  a  loyal  son 
of  America.  It  is  seldom  that  historic  epochs  yield  an 
immediate  harvest  to  the  art  and  literature  of  a  people. 
The  great  epic  of  our  internecine  strife  is  yet  to  be 
written,  but,  when  the  greater  resulting  benefits  of  those 
years  of  anguish — the  union  of  our  people,  the  manu- 
mission of  the  slave — have  become  so  thoroughly 
welded  into  our  national  life  that  the  conditions  exist- 
ing before  the  Civil  War  may  appear  mere  shadowy 
traditions,  there  will  remain  to  us,  it  is  permissible  to 
believe,  certain  fragments  of  our  literature  that  were 
the  fruit  of  that  great  epoch. 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST         501 


Lincoln's  speech  at  Gettysburg,  the  Commemoration 
Ode  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  the  "  Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic,"  by  Julia  Ward  Howe,  and  Walt  Whitman's 
"Captain,  O,  my  Captain,"  seem  destined  to  thus  sur- 
vive and  thrill  our  hearts  for  all  time.  With  these  there 
remain  in  imperishable  bronze  three  noble  works;  the 
Lincoln  standing  with  bent  head,  a  great  and  homely 
figure,  before  the  Chair  of  State;  the  Sherman  advan- 
cing to  war — war  that  is  hell — preceded  by  Victory  with 
swinging  step,  bearing  the  palm  of  triumph,  and  the 
youth,  Shaw,  leading  a  subject  race  to  their  freedom 
and  his  death. 

These  are  the  works  of  this  child  of  mingled  strain, 
these  are  the  offerings  that  this  great  American  laid  upon 
the  altar  of  his  country. 

To  those  of  us  that  knew  him,  the  men  of  his  genera- 
tion, there  rises  above  the  memory  of  the  fraternal  sym- 
pathy of  which  he  was  so  lavish,  even  above  the  meed 
of  admiration  which  his  work  inspires,  a  proud  sense 
in  which  the  humblest  member  of  his  craft  may  share, 
that  in  Saint-Gaudens  we  possessed,  as  an  example  of 
a  noble  aspiration  of  man,  a  typical  artist.  For  he  was 
more  than  a  sculptor.  During  his  life  there  were 
those  who  failed  to  grasp  the  full  significance  of  his  art, 
and  since  his  death,  as  usual  upon  the  eve  of  a  canon- 
ization, the  Devil's  Advocate  lifts  his  voice  and  suggests 
that  tried  by  the  canons  of  the  Greeks,  his  sculpture 
would  be  found  wanting.  So  much  may  be  granted  at 
this  probationary  period,  without  abating  in  the  slight- 
est degree  the  high  honour  that,  for  our  time  and  for 
our  purposes,  we  would  accord  our  greatest  artist. 

There  is  a  type  of  sculpture,  that  in  the  Hellenic  age 


502      A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

— and  never  since — became  vital  and  responsive,  em- 
bodying the  beliefs  and  reechoing  the  aspirations  of  an 
earlier  time  and  another  people  than  ours.  These  per- 
fect w^orks  are  carved  from  monoliths  and  remain  in 
their  largeness  of  form,  their  reticence  of  gesture  and 
their  voluntary  simplicity  of  aspect  closely  allied  to  the 
cube  from  w^hich  they  are  wrought.  They  are  the  w^ork 
of  Titans  who  met  on  terms  of  equality  the  gods  and 
demi-gods,  into  whose  images  they  infused  a  spirit  be- 
fore which  we  tremble — but  may  not  aspire  to  imitate. 
When  sculpture  had  its  rebirth  in  a  Christian  era,  it 
took  upon  itself  at  once  a  character  more  human  and 
a  guise  far  more  complex.  Donatello  again  carved  his 
men  of  stone,  but  they  no  longer  bore  the  impress  of 
their  marmorean  cradle,  gesture  became  freer,  composi- 
tions more  involved,  and  the  marble  under  his  touch 
became  more  plastic,  as  he  embroidered  his  theme  ac- 
cording to  his  freer  fantasy.  Even  the  hand  that 
"wrought  in  sad  sincerity,"  felt  his  marble  pulsate  and 
escape  the  limit  of  the  cube  and  the  great  *'Dawn"  and 
"Twilight"  suggest  these  more  human  limitations.  For 
these  men  and  those  that  follow  after  are  no  longer  im- 
peccable in  their  technical  knowledge.  It  is  with  genu- 
ine human  sympathy,  and  recognition  of  the  frailty 
inherent  in  man,  that  we  can  approach  their  works, 
and  acknowledge  their  greatness,  despite  the  comfort- 
ing reservation  that  they  fail  to  attain  the  perfection 
of  the  Greek.  Michael  Angelo  is  brought  nearer  to  us 
as  we  note  before  his  "Slave,"  in  the  Louvre,  that,  mas- 
tered by  the  emotion  of  his  conception,  he  committed 
an  error  of  measurement  and,  the  cube  from  which  he 
fashioned  his  palpitating  figure  proving  too  small  to 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST         503 


entirely  contain  it,  the  proportion  of  half  his  statue  has 
consequently  suffered. 

A  sane  judgment  untinctured  by  personal  affection — 
a  manner  of  consideration  which  he  so  strikingly  en- 
forced in  his  relations  with  his  artist-friends — would 
place  the  works  of  Saint-Gaudens  in  this  latter  category 
of  an  art  essentially  human,  carrying  its  message  to  all 
men  of  its  time  and  environment.  And,  under  the 
guidance  of  his  unerring  taste,  the  resource  of  his  tech- 
nical ability,  and  the  underlying  nobility  of  his  pur- 
pose, it  appeals  to  the  best  that  is  in  us. 

This  surely  is  high  praise  for  a  master  in  an  art  as 
young  as  ours,  and  his  achievement  constitutes  a  precious 
inheritance  for  a  people  so  recently  released  from  the 
primary  necessity  of  felling  our  forests  and  clearing  our 
fields,  in  order  that  we  may  take  rank  among  civilized 
nations,  to  deserve  and  acquire  an  art  of  our  own. 

We  may,  therefore,  cheerfully  concede  that  the  spirit 
of  our  first  great  sculptor  has  little  in  common  with  that 
which  called  into  being  the  demi-gods  of  the  Greek 
Pantheon — though  here  arises  the  memory  of  the  aus- 
tere and  placid  figure  that  guards  the  tomb  in  Wash- 
ington, which  claims  some  parentage  with  these,  though 
again  some  part  of  the  riddle  of  her  enigmatic  presence 
is  propounded  in  our  common  language — for  surely  her 
problems  are  questions  of  our  time  ?  But  this  figure 
stands  apart  in  his  work  and  for  the  most  part,  techni- 
cally and  in  expression,  his  sculpture  is  the  last  in  the 
line  of  progression  from  the  revivified  art  of  Donatello. 
I  have  said  that  he  was  more  than  sculptor,  I  could 
almost  gratify  his  detractors  by  agreeing  that  his  art 
was  not  sculpture;    at  least,  within  the  circumscribed 


504      A  CHRONICLE   OF  FRIENDSHIPS 


limits  where  they  are  willing  to  confine  the  noble  art. 
For  Saint-Gaudens  treated  his  clay  as  the  painter 
handles  his  colours.  The  material  was  plastic,  almost 
fluid,  in  his  hands,  and,  until  the  rigid  bronze  fixed  its 
contours  and  immobilized  its  masses,  there  was  no 
limit  to  the  changes  to  which  it  was  subjected  in  the 
pursuit  of  an  ideal  that  should  perfectly  express  his 
mastering  emotion — an  ideal  as  unattained,  possibly,  to 
his  perception  as  those  that  elude  the  grasp  of  all 
artists,  but  embodying  for  us  a  result  singularly  rich 
and  varied  in  expression.  To  some  degree  this  method 
of  work  is  not  unusual,  for  he  is  a  faint-hearted  artist 
who  will  hesitate  to  put  an  evident  amelioration  of  his 
work  to  the  touch — "to  win  or  lose  it  all"; — but,  car- 
ried to  the  point  that  Saint-Gaudens  did,  it  constitutes 
a  technical  method  that  is  both  peculiar  and  individual. 
In  the  hands  of  a  lesser  man  it  might  have  denoted 
vacillation,  but  to  those  who  have  been  privileged  to 
follow  his  work,  step  by  step,  from  the  primary  concep- 
tion to  the  completed  monument,  I  fancy  that  there  is 
not  one  who  will  deny  that  the  end  justified  the  means. 
With  all  the  pictorial  sense  that  makes  his  work  grate- 
ful to  the  painter,  his  taste  was  too  correct,  his  com- 
mand of  the  technical  methods  of  the  sculptor  too  thor- 
ough, to  overstep  the  boundary  of  the  sister  art.  He  had 
a  full  appreciation  of  the  interdependence  of  sculpture, 
painting,  and  architecture,  in  a  decorative  sense,  and 
few  have  so  wisely  profited  by  the  alliance  of  their  work 
with  architectural  adjuncts  as  he;  while,  in  his  reliefs 
especially,  he  is  as  much  indebted  to  dehcately  drawn 
and  beautifully  spaced  ornament  as  were  the  painters 
of  Florence   who   graduated   from   the   studios   of  the 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST         505 

jewellers.  But  all  this  charm  of  the  embroidered  sur- 
face, the  complex  folds  of  the  flower-engirdled  drap- 
eries he  loved  so  well,  the  enrichment  of  the  planes  of 
his  relief  backgrounds  or  his  pedestals  by  cunningly 
devised  inscription  or  symbolic  ornament,  were  all 
subsidiary  to  the  mass  and  weight  of  the  strongly 
modelled  heads,  the  graceful  stalwart  or  characteristic 
figures  that  embodied  the  impression  he  desired  to  con- 
vey. A  few  years  ago  I  stood  in  the  sculpture  gallery 
of  the  Luxembourg,  in  Paris,  in  the  company  of  a 
French  artist  whose  opinions,  from  long  experience  of 
their  value,  I  have  learned  to  respect.  We  stood  before 
Saint-Gaudens's  relief,  "Amor  Caritas,"  and,  from  a 
desire  to  add  confirmation  to  my  own  high  apprecia- 
tion of  its  beauty,  I  was  led  to  quote  the  disparaging 
opinion  of  a  third  friend,  a  sculptor,  who  insisted  that, 
tried  by  the  canons  to  which  sculpture  should  adhere, 
it  was  not  sculpture. 

"Well,"  was  the  rejoinder  of  my  friend,  "look 
around  us.  Here  is  a  gallery  filled  with  modern  sculpt- 
ure, some  of  it  living,  and  some  of  it  dead.  The 
greater  part  shows  technical  ability  of  a  high  order,  but 
how  infrequently  the  quality  of  expression  is  of  equal 
import,  and  how  few  of  these  well  modelled  figures 
show  a  definite  conception,  how  few  that  we  cannot 
trace  back  to  some  previous  work.  Here  is  a  work 
pregnant  with  meaning;  of  a  symbolism  that  appeals  to 
all;  that  is  novel  and  personal  in  its  presentation;  whose 
facture  we  hardly  consider,  so  appropriate  are  the  tech- 
nical methods  suited  to  its  theme.  Our  friend  denies 
that  it  is  sculpture,  it  may  be  something  better;  it  is 
individual,  it  is  beautiful,  beyond  dispute  it  is  Art." 


506       A  CHRONICLE   OF   FRIENDSHIPS 

The  last  seven  years  of  the  Hfe  of  this  great  artist 
were  passed  in  a  beautiful  country  in  his  much-loved 
home  at  Cornish,  N.  H.  Here  in  ample  studios,  aided 
by  his  pupil-assistants,  his  production  was  carried  on, 
in  the  intervals  of  encroaching  malady  and  absolute 
physical  prostration,  with  no  loss  of  the  ardour  with 
which  men  like  him  work  to  the  last.  In  his  rare  visits 
to  New  York  we  saw  Saint-Gaudens,  ill  beyond  denial 
or  concealment,  but  as  courageous  and  as  interested  in 
his  friends  as  ever.  Scarce  a  year  has  passed  since 
we  sat  together,  and,  endowed  by  all  his  old-time 
vividness  of  recital  he  described  the  humours  of  an 
official  reception  in  a  manner  that  brought  to  life  a 
varied  and  amusing  scene  through  which  passed  char- 
acteristic figures,  living  also  by  a  word,  or  a  character- 
istic gesture.  Of  one  of  these,  a  Persian  diplomat,  he 
made  an  inimitable  caricature,  giving  it  especially  an 
eye  in  which  lurked  all  the  impenetrable  mystery  of 
the  Orient;  and,  five  minutes  after,  he  was  deep  in  a 
forecast  of  future  work  and  description  of  that  which 
he  had  under  way:  in  spirit  as  young,  hopeful,  and  buoy- 
ant as  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  knocked  at  my 
door  at  8i  Boulevard  Mont  Parnasse,  thirty  years 
before. 

We  dwelt  on  Mount  Parnassus  at  the  outset  of  my 
story,  and  one  by  one  I  have  seen  vanish  in  its  shadow 
many  of  my  comrades  of  that  time.  Others  still  toil 
along  the  ascent  led  by  the  light  that  hovers  at  its 
summit,  and  the  effort  to  maintain  a  footing  along 
the  slopes  of  the  Hill  Difficult — but  enchanting — lends 
a  zest  to  life  and  joy  to  their  labour  until  the  day,  re- 


RETROSPECT  AND   FORECAST         507 

mote  or  near,  when,  in  some  sacred  wood  dear  to  the 
Arts  and  the  Muses,  they  may,  together  with  those  gone 
before,  Hsten  to  the  fluting  of  Pan  and  breathe  once 
more  the  airs  of  their  youth. 


\, 


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